The Abduction
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: Tim vanishes without a trace and awakes to find himself at the mercy of former foes. What do they want with him and how far are they willing to go for it? Sequel to Doubts. Written for the NFA Community Tim in Peril Challenge!
1. Chapter 1

_Dark…_

_Dank…_

_Damp…_

_Hot…_

_Stuffy…_

_Itchy…_

He awakes to these sensations. His mind is clouded; this, he assumes in his struggle to regain full consciousness, is what it must feel like to have your head stuffed with cotton. His brain feels light, weightless. His entire body, in fact, feels as though it is floating through space, no gravity to pull it back down to Earth.

Despite this, there is a gentle throbbing located beneath his temples.

Sweat rolls down his face, tickling his skin. He wants to wipe them away and attempts to do so. He then realizes there are two things stopping him. The first is the rope which binds his hands behind his back and to the chair in which he is currently seated. The second is the sack or bag which has been situated over his head. It itches and makes the air hot and stale. He tries to gulp in a few breaths but finds it difficult.

He searches for his voice and finds it eventually. "Hello?" he croaks.

Silence.

His throat is parched, but he continues calling out to people who may or may not be there. "Where am I? Who are you? What do you want with me?"

More silence. It's almost deafening.

His tongue juts out, moistening his chapped lips. The haze is beginning to lift and, with it, the weightlessness. He is coming back to Earth. He can already tell that the landing will be a painful one.

He scrunches his eyes closed, pulling forth memories of a recent sequence of events.

The job offer in L.A.

A week of agonizing consideration.

Telling Vance.

Not saying good-bye.

Getting on the plane.

The man waiting for him; his name on the sign.

Sitting in the van…phone coming on…the hand from behind, catching him off guard.

He'd put up a fight; he had lost.

If he had just stayed put, been happy with his lot in D.C…if he hadn't gotten greedy and been dazzled by fancy techno-toys, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't be here, bound to a chair and blinded with a sack which made breathing difficult; he would be sitting at his desk while Tony snapped rubber bands at him and Gibbs slapped him on the back of the head for feeling it pertinent to divulge in great detail just how he'd managed to track down someone wanted for murder. He never thought he'd actually miss that, but rubber bands and head slaps were heaven compared to his current situation.

"I screwed it all up," he says softly. "I've screwed up everything."

"Yeah, you did, Agent McGee." The voice makes him visibly jump. He inwardly curses himself for the knee-jerk reaction. Gibbs and Tony and Ziva wouldn't have jumped. Of course, they probably wouldn't have gotten themselves in this situation to begin with.

He hears footsteps clicking nearby. The owner of the voice is approaching him. Tim breathes evenly, not wanting to show his fear. In…out…in…out…

In a flash, the sack is torn off and the darkness is replaced by a light so bright Tim has to squint and turn away.

"Now," the voice says, "we're going to give you the chance to fix it."

* * *

**AN:** I've finally completed my long-awaited sequel to _Doubts_! As per usual, one chapter per day!


	2. Chapter 2

The harsh light dimmed and Tim's eyes soon adjusted. He blinked a few times and the face before him came into focus. The face was round with pinched features and a scruff five o'clock shadow. The eyes were pools of brown and looked at him with such an intense loathing that Tim had to force himself not to cower. The scornful eyes matched the sneer which spread across his face.

Tim didn't recognize the man, but the man obviously knew him.

"Where am I?"

His question was rewarded with a punch to his gut. He felt the precious air fly from his lungs, leaving him gasping for more. The muscles of his abdomen tightened and his body trembled in pain. What had he gotten himself into?

"I guess you don't know me," the man said. Tim could hear traces of a Russian accent in his speech. The accent was only slightly present, giving Tim the impression that, though the man may have been born there, much of his life had been spent in America. "I believe we have a mutual friend, though. A former NCIS worker by the name of Patrick Stowe; does the name ring a bell?"

Tim's head snapped up. The name rang a bell louder than Quasimodo. Patrick Stowe had been assigned to the Cyber Crimes Unit two years earlier and had been the newest hire when Tim was transferred there. The kid had been young and very shy, much like Tim had been his first year with NCIS. Even among the other computer geeks of the CCU, Stowe had been a loner. He didn't initiate conversations and chose to eat lunch at his own desk rather than going out with any of the others. Not that there was anything wrong with keeping separation from co-workers; Tim had also stayed within his own world while in the CCU. But Stowe had shown no signs of _any_ social life, even outside of the CCU.

Tim had thought nothing of the young computer geek's self-inflicted isolation. At least, he hadn't thought anything of it until Stowe was accused of stealing government information and embezzling funds. The team had covered the case; Tim had been the one to trace the security breaches back to Stowe.

He took a large gulp of air as his the pain from the blow subsided. His body continued to tremble. "You and Stowe," he said. They'd always suspected that Stowe was working with someone else. Before they could question the man, though, he'd jumped into the Potomac. The so-called suicide had been suspicious, but with nothing else to go on, the case had been closed. Now it seemed the closure had been premature. "You were working together."

"Very good, Agent McGee," the man said in a patronizing tone.

"He didn't really commit suicide." He wasn't asking a question.

The man's face split into a smile. "He just needed a little push. We certainly couldn't have him breaking on us, could we? And a softie like him would break like that," he said with a snap of his fingers.

"We?" Tim repeated. How many people were in on this? At least two, he surmised, remembering the man who'd picked him up at the airport. Maybe more, though.

"Stowe was just a lackey. He was expendable."

Tim hated hearing of anyone as being expendable. "I suppose I'm expendable too."

"Of course," the man affirmed. "You could make yourself a necessity to us if you wanted to."

He snorted. Tim was no fool; this man would kill him the moment he no longer needed him. He could only be a necessity for so long. "And how would I do that?"

The man leaned down so his eyes were level with Tim's. "Get us the information we need."

He wasn't surprised. He had gone through the stolen information, all of which had come from the NCIS files. This man wasn't likely to be so easily stopped. "You want me to hack into NCIS?"

"No, Agent McGee, not just NCIS. We want files from the FBI, CIA…all of them."

"What for?"

He got another blow, this one to his face. A loud snap and searing pain indicated that his nose had been broken. A slew of colorful four-letter words spilled from his mouth faster and more plentifully than the blood spilled from his nose.

"I guess now would be the best time to set some ground rules," the man said as Tim cursed in pain. "The first rule is that you don't question direct orders."

Tim sucked in a harsh breath between gritted teeth. "And the second?" he asked in a strained tone.

"Haven't figured out the rest yet. Guess I'll just make them up as we go along." He gave Tim's cheek a pat, much to the young agent's annoyance. "Now I don't expect you to accept my offer just yet. These are the kinds of things you've got to think about. So you go ahead and sleep on it. Tomorrow we'll discuss it further."

"No," Tim replied in a strong, firm tone; at least he hoped it was strong and firm. There was a slight quiver in his voice, but that was just the pain, not fear; because Tim wasn't afraid. "You may as well just kill me now, because 'no' is the only answer you're going to get."

The man guffawed. "Kill you? Where's the fun in that? Besides, my associate and I have a few methods of persuasion. I'm sure we'll eventually get you to see it from our perspective. If not…well, we're certainly have fun trying."

Tim had once been present during a lengthy discussion had by Ducky and Ziva regarding such "methods of persuasion." Just hearing about them had made his stomach churn worse than a rocking boat; now, as he faced said methods, he could feel every muscles in his body quivering.

The man noticed how his words had dissolved Tim's bravado. He smiled. "Don't worry, Agent McGee. We're planning on staring off easy. We won't need to get into the heavy stuff unless you hold strong." He gave Tim's cheek another pat. "But I don't think you will. I can recognize a softie when I see one. A few well-placed breaks…you'll crack like peanut brittle."

"No!" he resounded with surprising conviction. "I'm not a softie."

"Yeah?" the man asked with amusement. "How about we make a little wager, then? If you're not broken by day three of our sessions, I'll put you out of your misery."

Tim winced at the thought of death being his only escape. "And if…if you do manage to…to break me…?"

The man's face split into a sinister grin. "Then I'll have won."


	3. Chapter 3

The team sat in the conference room with Vance and Assistant Director Rowan who had flown in on the first plane he could find to D.C. Two emotions filled the tense atmosphere: anger and worry.

"I've been on vacation for the past week," Rowan explained to the fuming group. "I can assure you that I never sent any e-mail about a job opening. Even if I did and simply forgot about it, I've been told there's been no sighting of Agent McGee by any of our people in L.A."

"How did this happen?" Gibbs asked, his tone far more level than was expected by anyone. No doubt the man felt ire—rage, even—but he wasn't betraying it in his words; at least, not yet.

Rowan looked down at his lap sheepishly. "I've got my computer geeks working on it. It's possible someone hacked into my account and sent the e-mail…" The unspoken 'but' hung in the air.

"How easy is it for an outsider to hack into the NCIS system?"

"I've never attempted it, Agent Gibbs, but I would hope the task is not a simple one."

"And for someone who is not an outsider?" That uncomfortable question came from Ziva. "How easy would it be for another NCIS employee?"

"Easier, I'm sure," Rowan said. "The hacker would still have to go through other channels, not to mention my firewall, but they would bypass a great deal of work by already being in the system. It would be even easier if…"

"If what?" Vance asked. The NCIS Director had been eerily silent during much of the conversation. The man had one hell of a poker face, one that could even rival Gibbs'. No one sitting with him in the conference room knew just how much he was stewing inside. How could he have allowed one of his own to fall into this situation?

"Well, I'm not the most computer literate person, Leon. If I'm having a computer problem, I call on one of the computer geeks to tinker with it until it works again. They've tried to explain how I can fix the problem myself in the future, but I never understand what any of them are saying."

"How many times has your computer needed fixing?"

"Since I've moved into my new office? Too many times to count. Last month alone I needed technical assistance about five times."

"Is it always the same person or do they mix it up now and then?"

"They send whoever's available. Sometimes they're in and out before I get back from lunch."

"So in other words," Gibbs cut in, "you have no idea who might have hacked into your computer."

Rowan sighed. "Yes, Agent Gibbs, that's what I'm saying."

Tony had remained quiet through the discussion, his mind on his Probie. True, Tim hadn't been a Probie for quite sometime now, but in Tony's eyes, he would always be a Probie. Despite the snide tone in which he often used the nickname, he didn't really mean it as an insult; Tony just liked to think—to hope—that Tim's growth as a special agent and the agent he had become were due partly to Tony's guidance. Silly, he knew, as Tim was destined to be the man he'd become; it was too much in his genes. But maybe, just maybe, in the head slaps and derisive name-calling, Tim had found strength and confidence in his own abilities. He must have; if he hadn't, he would have quit long ago.

"What could they want with him?"

They all looked at Tony. It was a question which had entered all of their minds.

"I mean, he's a computer geek. He's not some secret spy."

"Agent McGee has access to sensitive information," Vance replied. "He's been privy to more than one classified mission and has the skills to hack into almost any government files."

"But how would they even know that McGee would be given the job?" Ziva asked. "He is not the only computer gee--" She stopped, mid-word. She couldn't bring herself to lump Tim together with the NCIS computer geeks; he was more than that. "He is not the only one with such skills," she said softly. "How could they have been certain that he would be the one sent."

"Maybe one computer geek's as good as the other," Rowan commented. The comment earned scornful glares.

"So why not nab one of your L.A. geeks?" Tony asked. "It would have been easier and they wouldn't have had to hack anyone."

Vance picked up a print out of the e-mail and handed it to Gibbs. "In the e-mail, the person specifically asked for an agent with strong computer skills, a good investigative eye, and an ability to use a firearm. How many of our computer geeks can even load a gun, let alone handle one?" They all knew the answer to that. "They were banking on him."

"Meaning they know him," Gibbs said. "Or, at least, know _of _him."

"Enough to know his credentials."

Tony looked back and forth between the two men. "So…we've got a mole at NCIS."

"Again," Ziva added softly.

"Didn't we just deal with a turncoat computer geek?" Tony commented.

"As I recall, Tony, that one ended up dead." Ziva tapped her finger against her temple pensively. "Perhaps someone else is picking up where he left off."

"I'll have someone from CCU keep track of McGee's account," Vance said.

Gibbs responded with a mirthless laugh. "You think whoever's nabbed him is going to have him do anything from within the system, Leon?"

"Can't hurt to be prepared, Gibbs. I'll also have them watch for hacking or other unusual activity."

"Better tell our sister agencies to also be on the look out," Ziva said.

"Stowe's hacking history showed he was only targeting NCIS," Tony commented. "What makes you think they'd be going after other ARMFED agencies?"

"If they were only planning to target NCIS, why not use the computer tech who is already working for them? He obviously has enough skills to hack into Assistant Director Rowan's e-mail, so why go to so much trouble to abduct another agent? My guess is our NCIS mole does not have the skills to hack into other ARMFED agencies…"

"But McGee does," Gibbs commented. He should know seeing as he was the one who'd asked Tim to hack into the FBI, CIA, and countless others.

"I'll alert them too," Vance agreed. "Now what is your team's next move, Gibbs?"

Gibbs gave a look to Tony and Ziva before answering. "I want you to get one of our computer geeks on Rowan's e-mail; see if they can back trace the hacker and get us a location. We know McGee made his flight and got as far as L.A. After that was when he fell off the radar. I'll have Abby pull footage from the LAX security cameras and see if she can get an ID on who picked him up."

Vance nodded in regards to the unspoken question. "Priority flight okay for you?"

"Better than trying to reserve seats on a commercial flight."

"I'll see what I can get."

Gibbs stood and nodded for Tony and Ziva to follow behind. The two of them exchanged confused looks. "Uh, boss?"

"Yeah, DiNozzo?"

"Would you mind explaining exactly what's going on?"

"Go home," he told them both. "I want you packed and back here in two hours."

"Packed?" Tony asked.

"Packed," Gibbs repeated. "We're going to L.A."


	4. Chapter 4

Tim's captors—there were three, including the beefy man who had picked him up from the airport—were speaking softly to each other while he sat in an adjacent area, still bound to the chair. He wasn't quite sure where he was being held; there were no windows, but there were pipes running along the top of the structure. One had a small leak, so the sound of dripping water helped cover up the men's conversation.

He shivered. He wished he'd chosen to wear a jacket when he'd left that morning (had it been that morning? How long had passed since his plane had landed?). Of course, one could exactly plan for getting abducted, but he could feel his skin tingling from the cold. It didn't help that the ropes binding his hands were cutting off the circulation to his fingers.

After his less than pleasant conversation with the head captor, Tim had been left alone for the better part of the day…or night…whichever time it had been. Normally he enjoyed being alone with his thoughts, but in this case it was almost maddening. He began thinking over his choices and actions, berating himself for his stupidity. Tim knew, of course, that he hadn't really done anything wrong—well, except for running off like a chicken without telling anyone and without saying goodbye—but when you spend hours by yourself and all you can do is think, you begin to _over_ think the situation.

"Enough thinking," he muttered. It was time to get into action. Time was of the essence.

The leader of the traitorous trio had returned after countless hours with a fast food dinner in hand and his two henchmen in tow. In addition to the man from the airport was a skinny guy who couldn't have been older than his late twenties. The kid had a ghostly pale complexion, a face dotted with traces of acne, and a pair of coke-bottle glasses perched precariously atop his nose. The young henchman was markedly nervous and hung back while the other two men talked. Tim had a hunch that this was Stowe's replacement as geek lackey.

He'd been given a meal consisting of a greasy burger and fries which had been eaten under the watchful eye of the beefcake henchman. After that he'd been escorted to a restroom. "Take advantage of this," the burly man had told him. "Don't know when you're gonna get another piss break." Even the restroom was windowless. Tim could only assume he was being held in some underground area.

The rope holding him was comprised of a yellow synthetic fiber, like the kind you see in a young girl's jump rope. It wasn't the easiest stuff to wear down and it would take a lot of effort and a lot of pain to squeeze his hands out of the bindings.

The voices grew louder and Tim strained to hear. "…some stupid Fed," one of them snarled. "He'll break."

"I just don't think this is a good idea."

"You backing out, Trask?"

"There's got to be a better way."

"The kid's squeamish."

"Get over it."

There was no doubt they were talking about Tim. It was unsettling to say the least. He knew that he could do what they wanted him to do; he had the ability. He also knew that he'd break eventually. Ziva had once told him that no one could hold out forever, and she seemed to be something of an expert on the subject. His options were few. He could try to escape, which was his current plan of action. He could also give in to their demands and save himself a lot of pain, but Tim was better than that; if they were going to get the information they wanted he was going to make them really work for it, no matter the pain.

And there was, of course, a final option, one that he didn't want to contemplate until the last moment: taking his own life and denying them the tool they required to betray the country.

"You go back, Trask. Act normal and call me if something suspicious happens."

"Do you expect something to happen?" was the nervous reply.

"Well, I think someone's bound to notice when a federal agent goes missing, so yes, Trask, I expect something to happen!"

The uneasy geek—Trask, as he had been called—was escorted out by the other two henchmen and Tim could see how antsy the kid was. He wondered how Trask had gotten himself into this mess. He was probably a lot like Stowe; antisocial, shy, self-conscious. Maybe he was after the money and the glory, certain that it would turn his crappy life around.

As the man walked by, Tim caught his glance. He gave him a cold look, hoping Trask could see just how disappointed Tim was with him. It must have worked because the young geek turned away abashedly.

More than anger, though, Tim felt pity for the kid. He was in over his head and had no idea what lay in store for him. These guys wouldn't keep the geek around; he was expendable now, another loose end to be cut.

Tim didn't imagine it would end well for the kid.

* * *

"This isn't fair!" Abby bellowed between sobs. The audience for her violent weeping was comprised of Ducky, Jimmy, and Director Vance, who looked on with sympathy. "This shouldn't happen!"

Ducky pulled the hysterical woman into a hug. "Abigail, we are all worried about Timothy. I know you are saddened by this, but we need you at the top of your game; _Timothy_ needs you at the top of your game!"

"You're right," she growled, pulling herself from his embrace. "I need to pool all of my anger and hatred into finding these bastards and showing them that they messed with the wrong team! And I _will_ find them!" she promised. "Then Gibbs can do some of that Marine sniper action on him. Wait, no! That's too easy for them! We'll capture them alive and then let Ziva do her magic. In fact, I hope they resist and make it hard for us!"

"Miss Scuito," Vance cut it, effectively halting Abby's vengeful plans, "their punishment can wait. For now, we need you to check the security footage from the LAX airport for any shots of Agent McGee."

"Yes," she said confidently as she dove into the task, "I will do that now! Hopefully I can find a picture of our dirt bag!"

"What time is the team's flight scheduled to land?" Ducky asked.

"Weather permitting, they should be there by 10:00pm Pacific Time."

"10:00pm?" Abby echoed. "But Tim's flight landed…" She consulted the clock. "…landed eleven hours ago! Eleven hours! Who knows what they've been able to do in that time!"

"Abby, the footage," Ducky said, pointing to the computer. After years spent working with the woman, he and the rest of the team knew that the best way to keep her mind off whatever terrible thing had happened was to give her a task to do.

"Right!" she said as she turned back to the computer. "I'll go through the footage time stamped between 0700 and 0900 this morning. What airline did he fly with?"

Vance consulted the flight itinerary. "Delta."

"Okay, so I can limit my initial search to the Delta concourses and baggage claims. It's unlikely that he stopped for a bite to eat after he'd landed, so I'll bypass those areas. And we're working under the assumption that his abductor was waiting inside the airport for him, so whatever car they used was probably parked in the short-term parking garage."

"How much footage does that give you?"

She sighed resignedly. "It still leaves me with a lot."

It was time they didn't have. "Dr. Mallard, are you and Mr. Palmer working on anything at the moment down in autopsy?"

"No," Ducky said, well aware of where Vance was going. "While I may not be the most computer efficient man, I could certainly spare some time to look at security footage. As could Mr. Palmer, I'm sure."

"Scuito, send half of the footage up to the bullpen," Vance ordered. "I'll ask around and see who else has time to look through some of this footage."

As he turned to leave, Abby halted him with a question. "Wait! What about the dirty NCIS mole in LA? If we can find out who sent the fake e-mail, we can catch them and torture them for information!"

"I assure you," Vance said, "at this very moment we have one of our best computer geeks working on it."

"But he's not _the_ best," she countered. "He can't be because _the_ best is the one in trouble right now!"

"Abigail!" Ducky chided. "I understand that you are upset, but please do try to stay calm. It will make it so much easier for us to find Timothy quickly. Agent Keating is very able and we have full confidence that he will prove to be very useful to our search." He pulled Abby in for a hug once again, giving her back a gentle pat. "I believe if McGee were here he would want you to work on finding him, not fret so much that you end up doing nothing. You're not going to let him down, are you?"

"No," she said, her mouth set in determination. "No, I will not! These rats…no, not even rats! They're lice! They may think they're so small, almost imperceptible to the human eye, but I am the lice killer! I will find them and get them!"

The trio of men left Abby's lab, Vance heading to the CCU to check Keating's progress and Ducky and Jimmy on their way to the bullpen to watch footage. "That girl is wound tighter than a tourniquet," Vance muttered.

"Yes, well Abigail has seen many friends leave…some making a stop in autopsy first. She seems to break a little more with each sudden departure."

"Do you think she's of sound enough mind to continue work under these circumstances?"

Ducky truly didn't know the answer; what he did know was that Abby was the best at what she did and if they wanted to find Tim she would have to be the one working alongside them. So he answered the question the best way he knew how. "I think that she would be invaluable to the rescue of Agent McGee."

Vance nodded silently as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out, telling the two autopsy men, "See who else you can get to watch footage. I'm not going to send Scuito home, but I will see to it that she gets a healthy amount of rest so that she doesn't burn out."

The elevator doors closed once again, leaving Ducky and Jimmy its only occupants. So far the young ME apprentice had relatively remained silent, leaving the talking to the team. Now, he bravely asked, "Do you think they'll find him?"

"They will, Mr. Palmer, they will," Ducky replied with more confidence than he truly felt. "I only hope that our area of expertise is not required on this case."


	5. Chapter 5

Upon entering, one could easily see that the L.A. headquarters were far different than the D.C. headquarters, and it wasn't just the conspicuously missing orange walls. While the east coast building looked like an actual office, the west coast seemed to have taken a fancier approach to things and the lobby looked more like an upscale hotel. When the team entered they almost felt as though they needed to wait for a bellboy to come by and take their stuff.

"We should hire their decorators," Tony commented as he took in the scene.

"Ah, our friends from D.C."

Gibbs knew that voice anywhere and it was one that he trusted deeply. He turned and found just the woman he needed to see. Hettie Lange was a diminutive woman, standing at only 4'9"—a foot below Gibbs—but it didn't hinder her from leading her team. If anyone doubted her abilities, they need only cross her once to know her wrath. She was small, but scrappy and she did well by her team.

"Led, of course, by Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she continued. "I don't think I've seen you on this coast in quite some time."

"Been a couple years, Hettie," he agreed. "I see you've abandoned the warehouse since then." Gibbs had known the woman for a few years; she had started her NCIS career in D.C. and Gibbs knew her to be very loyal to the agency.

She beckoned for them to follow her as she led them up the stairs. "I only wish this visit were a happier one. Rowan has filled me in," she said as she opened a door to a private office, "and I am at your disposal."

"So far we know that Director Vance received an e-mail from Rowan's account about a job offer out here, so our first question is which of your computer geeks know how to hack into Rowan's account?"

"All of them, I should hope. Why hire them if they can't hack, after all? Now, how many of them _would_ hack into it for such a purpose is a much more difficult question."

"Do you have an answer?"

Hettie considered it. "To be honest, I don't know much about our tech support, other than their skills."

"Perhaps you have a computer technician who would know," Ziva suggested.

"A head geek in charge," Tony added, "someone you trust."

She nodded. "Yes, of course. Eric is probably the best person to ask regarding our computer proficient hires. I believe he and Agent McGee worked together during his short visit here two years ago."

Gibbs nodded. He had a slight recollection of the blonde, bespectacled computer geek. He hadn't spent enough time with him to know how trustworthy he was, but Tim had liked him.

"And you trust this guy?" Tony asked.

"He's never given me reason not to."

"We'd like to speak with him, Hettie," Gibbs said.

While the woman went in search of Eric Beal, the team discussed the situation and figured out how to approach this. "Ziva, I went you to send the names of possible turncoats to Keating back in D.C."

"What about Abby?"

"She's got enough to deal with at the moment and I don't want to overload her."

"We still don't even know if the person who hacked in Rowan's account was an employee," Tony pointed out.

"It's all we've got at the moment."

Tony nodded in concession. "What do you need me to do?"

"You head out to LAX. Abby's looking through the footage, but cameras aren't everywhere. Ask around and find out if anyone saw McGee."

"On it, boss," he said as he grabbed his stuff and headed out. He met Hettie and a guy he assumed was Eric on the way out.

"Running out on us so quickly, Agent DiNozzo?" Hettie asked with a glint in her eyes. "I hope it is nothing I said."

He smiled in spite of the current situation. "No, ma'am, my services are just needed elsewhere at the moment. I promise to come back," he said before jogging off.

Tony was on his way out the door when a young, pretty security guard caught his eye. She was a slim, blonde woman who looked like she wouldn't be able to stop an intruder from getting by; Tony had realized, though, that looks could be quite deceiving. He knew he'd been ordered to LAX, but the becoming guard had given him an idea, and not the kind that involved honey dust (though he couldn't deny that the thought had entered his mind).

"Excuse me, miss," he greeted with a charming smile.

She returned the grin, but she was watching him with a trained eye. "Can I help you, sir?"

Tony flashed his badge. "NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo."

"Are you new?" she asked, relaxing visibly now that she knew he was a fellow employee. "I don't recognize your face and I make it a point to remember attractive men."

A smug grin spread across his face, wishing the two of them were speaking under different circumstances; but they weren't and he needed to keep his mind on the job. "I'm from the east coast, here on special assignment."

"That's too bad," she said, giving him a once over. "So what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you've seen any strange behavior recently."

"Define strange."

"Have you noticed anyone here acting suspicious or jumpy?"

She considered the question. "To be honest, sir, quite a few people here tend to be on the jumpy side. I have certain people I keep a close eye on, but I haven't noticed anyone breaking the law, if that's what you mean."

"Who would those people be that you keep a close eye on?"

She gave him a list of about ten people who she thought could be potential trouble makers. When asked why she thought this, the simply shrugged, saying, "Something about them just doesn't vibe well with me."

Tony thanked her and gave her a nod (along with his number, should she ever find her way to his neck of the woods) before going off on the task he'd been given by Gibbs.

* * *

Upstairs, Gibbs and Ziva were speaking with the west coast version of Timothy McGee.

"Yeah, I heard a little while ago that Agent McGee has disappeared. I was shocked," Eric Beal said sincerely. "If I can do anything to help, just tell me."

"That's why we wanted to talk to you," Gibbs said. "We think that this may have been an inside job."

If Eric was surprised by the accusation, he didn't show it. He simply nodded thoughtfully. "It would have to be one of our tech people. Hacking into an e-mail account isn't exactly Computers 101."

"Would _you_ be able to do it?" Ziva asked with a playful smile.

"Well, it depends on the e-mail account," he said with an impish grin, "but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't eventually get in."

"So who else is on your level? Who else has these skills?"

Eric sighed. "Quite a few. I know most of our tech people and I can assure you they all earn their pay checks. I just have a hard time thinking that any of them might be traitors."

"I know it is difficult to think that about the people you work with," Ziva sympathized, "but now is not the time to protect anyone."

"It's not that," he replied, shaking his head. "I just don't think any of them have it in them. They're not exactly the…well…bravest guys. I mean, they prefer the action that their computer games give them; they don't want to actually live it. I guess I shouldn't talk about them as though I'm not the same way," he added sheepishly. "None of them really have a stomach for this kind of stuff."

"Could they be influenced by money?" Gibbs asked.

"Possibly. I'm sure you've noticed that computer geeks often suffer from low self-esteem. I don't doubt that they could be taken advantage of."

"Enough to betray the agency?"

"Maybe…I don't know." Eric let out a sigh of frustration. "I'm not good at the psychoanalysis. Nate could better answer that question. I'm just a computer guy. I know technology."

"Could you give us the names of people who have the skills to hack into Rowan's account?"

"I can, Agent Gibbs, but it'll be a long list."

He nodded. "Give them to Officer David. I want you to keep an eye on the tech men, though. Let me know if any of them are acting suspicious."

"Yes, sir."

Gibbs left Eric in Ziva's hands while he and Hettie exited the office. "You don't think Eric is involved," Hettie said as a statement.

"No," Gibbs agreed, "I don't. It just seems like we aren't getting anywhere."

She nodded. "And where are you going now?"

"To talk to Nate Getz. Like the kid said, he's the one who could best answer the question of who would betray NCIS."

* * *

Abby's eyes were sore from the two hours spent watching LAX's fuzzy security footage. She'd never believed her parents when they'd told her that watching so much television would make her go blind, but now she was beginning to understand what they meant. Worse yet, it had all been in vain.

"I can see McGee grabbing his bag from the luggage claim," she told Vance when he came down to see what she'd found, "but then he walks out of frame." She paused the video which showed Tim walking to the left of the camera. "He looks like he's greeting someone, so there was probably someone waiting there for him, maybe with one of those signs that has his name on it."

"And that someone was standing out of range of the camera," he commented. "Any sign of a vehicle?"

"There's a quick shot of him getting into a dark SUV, but I still can't see who he's with."

"License plate?"

She shook her head sadly. "I can't get an angle on the license plate. Ducky and Jimmy said they can't either."

Vance nodded as he watched the footage play out. Tim exited the airport and walked toward a dark vehicle, the back portion of which was out of frame. The camera caught him getting into the passenger seat, but then the footage switched over to another camera. He averted his eyes to the footage from another camera. "Pause that," he told her.

Abby did as she was told. "What do you see?"

He pointed to a dark vehicle that was in a line of vehicles exiting the airport drop-off area. "Is that the same SUV?"

She peered at the footage. It was blurry, but it looked similar. "It might be, but I still can't get a shot of the license plate."

"What about the car behind it?"

Abby furrowed her brow. "What about it?"

"Is it possible that the license plate is reflecting against the sheen?"

She squinted at the image and tried to blow it up as big as it would go. Her eyes were tired, but it looked as though there might be some sort of reflection on the fender of the car. "Maybe."

"Could you clean up the image enough to get the license plate?"

"I have a good software program," she said optimistically, "so it's worth a shot. Though it depends on how strong the reflection is."

"Get on it," he said with a nod.

She turned and watched him go, wanting to ask the question but afraid to. "Um…Director Vance?" He stopped and turned. "I was just wondering what they know right now."

He knew who she was talking about. "Their flight just landed, Miss Scuito. At this point I doubt they know much more than we do."

"Director Vance!" Keating burst in, almost running down the other man. In his hands, the computer geek held his laptop. "So I've been back-tracing the e-mail."

"Have you found who hacked into the account?"

"Not yet, sir. But I have centralized the area where our hacker was. It's the CCU of the L.A. headquarters."

"So it is a mole!" Abby proclaimed angrily. She'd secretly been hoping that the culprit wasn't an NCIS employee; it upset her too much to even consider that one of their own was betraying them.

"How many people have access to the CCU, Keating?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I send the message to Agent Gibbs, but I don't think he knows how to check his blackberry for them."

Vance nodded to the door. "I'll give them the update. Keep searching and let me know the minute you find out more."

"Yes, sir," he replied before rushing out.

"How can someone do that to their own agency?" Abby asked in anger. "How could they do it to their own country? Does patriotism mean nothing to them?"

Vance didn't know how to answer her question, so he avoided it by extracting his cell phone and calling Hettie Lange on the west coast. "The e-mail hacker was in the CCU," he told her. "We've got a mole in L.A."


	6. Chapter 6

His head snapped back with the force of the blow and he saw stars. Tim could feel his eye beginning to swell up, a pain only topped by the excruciating pounding in his head. He felt like Ringo Starr and Lars Ulrich were having a drum competition while a marching band circled them playing the 1812 Overture. The pain even echoed in his ears, momentarily deafening him.

Through the aching he managed to think back to a day when he was seven and he had gone to the playground with his mother. After his mother had buttoned him up in his fall coat while he fidgeted anxiously, Tim had made a bee-line for the swings, undoubtedly the best part of any playground. He'd happily hopped on the seat and begun pumping his legs back and forth to get motion. It took only moments for him to get into his groove, swinging higher and higher while revealing the feel of the wind blowing past him. He'd closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back as he hit the apex of the swing, imagining he was flying, like a trapeze artist. It was in this moment of relaxation that his grip had loosened and he'd felt himself topple backward mid-swing. His landing had been hard and his head had hit the ground painfully. He could remember sitting up with fresh tears in his eyes and calling for his mother who immediately ran toward him; he could also remember thinking it was the worst pain he'd ever felt and that he would never sit on a swing again.

He'd gotten past that—and had quickly gotten over his fear of swings. Now, he was suffering a worse pain, one that made him long for the days when a bump on the head was the worst of his problems. Still, he had faith that he would get past this too.

"Ready to cooperate, Agent McGee?"

Tim swallowed the mixture of blood and saliva that had begun to build in his mouth. "You can ask me as many times as you want," he said with false bravado, "and you'll get the same answer."

Boris—as Tim had dubbed the man in reference to the Russian villain of the _Rocky and Bullwinkle_ cartoons—sneered as he brought his fisted hand across Tim's face once more. The other henchman, who Tim had named Moose (after the dimwitted but beefy character of _Archie Comics_ fame), stood by, arms akimbo, watching intently as his boss threw blow after blow at their prisoner.

"Just help us, kid," said Moose. "You'll save yourself lots of trouble."

"No," Tim replied breathlessly. "And don't call me 'kid.'"

He expected another hit in response to his insolence, but none came. Instead, Boris sat down in a chair across from him. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and studied Tim. His eyes looked over the man who sat panting and aching before him. He'd first pegged the agent as a softie, the kind who hadn't seen much action. It seemed like the man was more comfortable around computers and electronics than around action and adventure. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong. "You're tougher than I thought you'd be," he commented to Tim.

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," he said. "People think I'm some weakling. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, don't apologize," Boris said with a twinkle in his eyes, "I look forward to finally breaking you."

"Like I said," Tim replied with a rejuvenated sense of courage, "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

Boris offered a small laugh in response to the young agent's spunk. "It's the cocky ones that fall the hardest. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to elsewhere, so I will have to leave you in the capable hands of my associate," he told him, gesturing to Moose. "Have fun!"

The beefy man stood with a shark-toothed grin as he cracked his knuckles.

* * *

Nate Getz had a certain quietness about him. If a person didn't know to look for him, they might not even know he was there. It was a good trait for someone who'd made a career out of studying and analyzing people; it made it easier to watch them without them putting up any sort of mask. With his messy hair and slight scruff of a beard, Nate was a master of blending in with a crowd. When he spoke, Gibbs found his voice as every bit as soft as the rest of him.

"I try not to think about my fellow employees turning against us, Agent Gibbs," Nate said. "That said, I can think of a few people here who might be persuaded to betray us."

"How can you tell?" Gibbs asked. He didn't doubt Nate's instincts, but preferred not to take the man's word without logical reasoning.

"Character traits," the man responded. "Minions are easily taken because they lack self-esteem and are weak minded. These people usually distance themselves from others and avoid social contact out of fear that they will be rejected. In turn, though, they often resent their co-workers for being able to build up friendships and relationships. If someone comes along and promises them something such as money or power, the person believes he can use it to gain popularity."

Gibbs thought back to Patrick Stowe, his own computer geek turned mole. The young man had certainly harbored those character traits. "These people you've got in mind, are any of them technologically inclined?"

Nate nodded. "I had to generalize, but the ones who work exclusively with computers are the most susceptible. They're not required to have much human contact so it makes it even easier for them to avoid it all together."

"So who have you got in mind?"

"Well, based on both the technological abilities required and the character traits associated with weak-mindedness, I can think of two people I've noticed. The first is one of our recent hires. Her name is Patricia Lohr. She has a mild form of autism known as Asperger's; most people with it have trouble in social situations and are often unable to communicate well with others. She has the skills to hack into an e-mail account and I could see someone taking advantage of her."

"Who's the other?" Gibbs asked as he marked down the name.

"Allen Trask," he replied. "He was two grades ahead in school and graduated from college at the age of twenty. Joined NCIS a year and a half about and hasn't made much of an effort to know anyone. He seems to prefer computers to people."

"Of the two, is there one you'd suspect more than the other?"

"Not really. They're very similar and practically indistinguishable, save for their genders. If they weren't both on the anti-social side I could see them making a cute couple."

The two of them heard the clicking of heels echoing through the hallway. The sound neared them and Hettie appeared in the doorway moments later with a grim expression on her face. "I just spoke with Director Vance," she told Gibbs. "One of your computer experts has traced the e-mail hacker back to our CCU."

If Gibbs was surprised by the news he didn't show it. He calmly handed Hettie the paper with the two names. "I want to talk with these two."

She took it with a nod. "I will see to it."

He thanked Nate for his insight before leaving behind Hettie. Despite her small stature, he found himself rushing to keep up with her. "You look pissed," he commented.

"I don't like to think about treason happening right beneath my nose, Agent Gibbs."

"Can't disagree with you there," he replied as thought back to his own traitorous troubles. One always asked "What it…" when they realized that a trusted associate had been playing him.

"If something should happen to you Agent McGee, I'd only blame myself for not catching it sooner."

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Hettie. To err is human."

"And to forgive is divine," she finished. "Does that mean you will bestow forgiveness on our mole?"

"You seem to have mistaken me with someone who's divine."

* * *

Trask nervously dialed the number, pleading for him to pick up. As it rang he looked around to make sure no one was listening. It was his lunch break and he'd gone to a nearby fabric store, pretending to look around. Who from work would be in a fabric store?

"Yeah?"

The young computer geek let out a breath. "Hey, it's me. NCIS is here. I mean, not the L.A. guys; the D.C. guys."

"They ask you anything?"

"No. They've just been talking to some of our higher-ups, but it's only a matter of time before they start questioning the CCU. I mean, they've got to know that someone no the inside did it and that it takes some expert computer skills."

"Hey," the other man snapped, "keep cool. Don't draw attention to yourself."

"I'm not in the building," Trask assured the man. He brought a hand up to his forehead, feeling the sweat that had begun to form. "I just…I don't know about this."

The other end was silent for a few seconds; it was an eerie silence that put Trask on edge. "Okay," the other man said finally, "here's what we'll do. You go to your apartment right now. Frank and I will be there soon to pick you up. You'll come stay here until the deed is done and then the three of us will leave the country. That sound good?"

"Maybe," Trask mumbled. "Do you really need me to stay around for anything? Can't I just leave now? You could forward me the money or something…I just can't stay here."

"That sounds like a good plan, kid. We'll meet you at your apartment and we'll get you out of here. Like you said, we don't need you for anything, so you're free to be let go."

Allen Trask didn't catch the sinister tone in his former-leader's voice. "Yeah," he agreed in a shaky tone. "Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Thanks," he told the man as he wiped away the sweat, "I feel much better now."

"Glad to hear that, kid. Now get home and remember to pack light."

"Should I call the airport and reserve a ticket?"

"No, no, I'll take care of it. If they're already on your tail, we don't want them to know you're planning to leave the country."

"Yeah," Trask said, "that's a good idea." His panic had replaced with a light, almost giddy feeling. He was actually going to get away with this. "Where am I going?"

"Some place nice and quiet," the man assured him. "Don't worry; they'll never be able to make you talk."


	7. Chapter 7

Abby ran hurriedly through the squad room, her platform boots slamming into the ground with each quick step she took. "Director Vance!" she called out when she spotted the man. He was standing in the bullpen with his back to her as he looked at the plasma. On the screen were two agency pictures, one of a man and one of a woman.

"Miss Scuito," he greeted as Abby neared him. "Good news?"

"Yes," she gushed. "Well, sort of. I mean, it's good and it's more than we had, but it still needs a lot of work. Who are they?" she asked, pointing to the two pictures.

"Patricia Lohr and Allen Trask," he told her. "One of them is likely our mole."

Upon hearing that, Abby narrowed her eyes at them both, wondering which one of them was responsible for getting her friend kidnapped. They both looked suspect to her. The woman had hooded eyes, giving her a drowsy, almost inebriated look. Her mouth was pursed into a tight frown. The man looked like a deer in headlights with his wide eyes and almost frightened expression. Both had differing demeanors, yet both could have betrayed their agency.

"So which is it?" she asked.

"If I knew that I wouldn't have time to talk to you. I take it you have news?"

Abby perked up; she'd forgotten her entire reason for coming up to the squad room. "I cleaned up the image," she told him as she grabbed the remote from his hand. She pulled up a clearer image of the car Tim entered after leaving the airport. In this one, the sheen on the car behind was more visible. "If we zoom in," she continued as she clicked the button to zoom, "we catch sight of the first four characters of the license plate. If I turn the image around, we can read those characters!"

Vance studied the picture. "Tango Yahoo Alpha Gulf," he read aloud. "Good work, Scuito! Cross check it with the L.A. DMV."

"Done and done," she chirped. "Only two hits in the L.A. area match the first four characters. One is a teenage kid who still lives with his parents; the other is an elderly woman who rarely leaves her house."

"That sounds like a dead end, but based on the way you're smiling, I'm guessing you have more to tell me."

"Indeed, I do! The woman, Esther Colby, reported her SUV missing three days ago. According to the police report, it was stolen outside her home and it hasn't turned up since."

He offered her a lauding smile. "I'll put out a BOLO on it. Anything else?"

"Maybe," she told him as she pulled up footage from another area of the airport. "It's by no means concrete, but I think I may have a visual on our kidnapper." She paused the footage and zoomed in on a figure in the upper right corner of the screen. The man's face was practically obscured, but he was clearly holding a sign, the beginning of which read "Timo" in big, black letters.

"Can you get any clearer on the face?" he asked.

"I can try, but I don't think all the cleaning in the world could make it work for a facial recognition scan. What really interested me, though, was this tattoo." She pinpointed a tattoo on the man's lower arm that looked like a picture of a shark with a wide, sinister grin. Letters adorned the shark's body, but it was difficult to know what they said. "I'll probably have a better shot at cleaning this up."

"Do you think you'd be able to make a positive identification on a tattoo?" he asked skeptically.

"Some tattoos are very distinct and have specific associations," she told him. "It may be a sign of membership to a certain group or organization. Even if it's just a regular tattoo, I can find out what tattoo parlors in L.A. have it in their selections and see if they know who got it."

It wasn't much, but it was a slow start. "Do it," he told her. "Let me know what you find."

"Aye, aye!" she replied with a mock salute. "Will you let me know when you find out which of those rats sold out their country and got McGee kidnapped?"

He gave her a bemused smile; Abby was nothing if not loyal. "You have my word, Miss Scuito."

* * *

Patricia Lohr reached her hand up to once again push a strand of her brown hair behind her ear; it seemed to be a nervous habit of hers. "Agent Gibbs, I would never use my computer skills to betray NCIS," she said firmly, "and I would never betray a fellow employee."

"I understand that you don't socialize much with your fellow employees here."

Her lips tightened. "Is that a crime?"

"No," he conceded, "but it doesn't sound like you care much about what happens to your colleagues."

"I'm not heartless!" she snarled. "Now I admit that I prefer not to make bonds with the others who work here, but that is my business and my business alone. That doesn't mean that I'd intentionally stab any of them—or anyone, for that matter—in the back! I joined NCIS to help people, not to hurt them."

Gibbs studied her as she ranted. She avoided eye contact at times, but he didn't feel that it was due to any deceitful intentions; rather, it seemed the norm for her, regardless of the situation. Eye contact or no, there was fire and strength in her words and Gibbs believed them. This woman may not enjoy the company of her co-workers, but he of all people certainly couldn't prosecute her for being anti-social.

"Thank you," he said, indicating that she could leave. As soon as she had, Eric Beale stuck his head in.

"Agent Gibbs, Trask is on his lunch break at the moment."

"When should he be back?" Having eliminated Lohr as the mole, Gibbs' money was currently on the young computer geek.

Beale fidgeted nervously. "Well, he should have been back ten minutes ago."

Gibbs was up before Beale could finish the sentence. "Get me his address and put out a BOLO on his vehicle."

"Yes, sir."

Tony rushed up to Gibbs as soon as the other man had exited the makeshift conference room. "Boss!"

"Got something, DiNozzo?"

"LAX was kind of a bust. The people there don't remember seeing McGee, let alone seeing who picked him up. On my way out, though, I talked to the security guard at the front door. She gave me a list of people who've been acting suspiciously lately."

"Allen Trask one of those people?"

Tony momentarily looked down at his list. "Yeah," he replied. "Is that one of the suspects?"

Gibbs didn't reply. "Find Ziva," he ordered. "Send a message to Vance and let him know we've found our mole."

* * *

The blood and drool dribbled from his mouth, trailing down his chin and leaving droplets on his shirt. It didn't matter though; his shirt was already stained with blood from other wounds.

Another punch landed on his cheek, but Tim didn't have the energy to respond. His mind and body were exhausted and he kept waiting to fall into a state of unconsciousness; but it didn't come.

"Wearing out?" he asked Moose breathlessly. The behemoth was showing signs of tiring and had taken a seat for a moment. Sweat shone on the man's head and his knuckles were bruised from the many punches he'd thrown Tim's way. Still, he didn't look nearly as bad as his captive.

"You're not going to win this one, kid," Moose told him. "It's only going to get worse from here. Why don't you just make it easier on everyone?"

"I don't like easy. That's for wimps." His smartass remark earned him another punch, this one to his gut. It left him gasping for air.

"I don't like wise guys," the man sneered. "I've been going light on you, but I can't be this nice forever."

"This is nice?"

The comment came with no punishment. Instead, Moose spread his lips into another shark-like grin. "For me, yeah, it is; you don't want to see my mean side."

Tim closed his eyes and let his head roll backward. He wondered where the team was at the moment, what they were doing. Did they know yet? Probably; Gibbs' gut had likely sent off warnings the minute Tim had been doused with chloroform. That was good, right? It meant they were very close to finding him…right?

His momentary respite was interrupted by a rough hand grabbing his hair and yanking his head back up. "No naps," Moose said. "We've got work to do."

"Y'do it," Tim slurred. "'m tired…"

The hand only twisted in his hair, pulling painfully at the follicles. "You want the pain to stop?" he asked, his face only inches from Tim's. "It's only going to stop if you get to work."

Tim remained motionless and mute. He'd run the gamut of smart ass remarks and couldn't keep up the touch act forever; it was crumbling where he sat, leaving in its place the same scared Probie he had been years ago. But even then—even when he'd cowered beneath Gibbs' cold glare—there'd been a spark of spunk in him, a quite confidence that kept him from giving up or quitting even when he was certain he'd never win; it remained there even now. He would not give them what they wanted, no matter the cost.

Moose released Tim's hair from his grasp, allowing the exhausted man's head to fall back once again. Through his lidded eyes, Tim saw the beefy man take up a long, metal bat and twirl it in his strong grip. It made a horrible whooshing sound as it split through the air. There was little doubt as to how it would be used.

"Last chance, kid," Moose said. "You can end this." The weapon swung back and forth in his hands.

"You're right," Tim whispered, "I can. I'll end you and your boss' treasonous streak the best way I can," he added defiantly.

There was a moment of tense silence; then it came. Tim heard the whooshing before he felt the metal make painful contact with his leg; it was followed by a sickening snap of his bone which sent horrid pain through his body. He chocked out a sob as his hands dug into the woodwork of his chair. Nothing—not having his shoulder dislocated, or even his car accident years ago—compared to the pain he was in now.

"I'll let you rethink your words," Moose said with a grin. He was obviously enjoying seeing his prisoner squirm in agony. "Just remember, you've got plenty of bones still left to go."


	8. Chapter 8

Gibbs rapped his knuckles against the door. "362" was emblazoned on the door and that was the apartment number Trask had listed in his address. The complex seemed like the kind of place where if you turned a blind eye to suspicious happenings. It was a perfect place for plotting and planning, especially if said plans involved treason.

"Allen Trask," he bellowed as he once again knocked on the door, "we need to speak with you."

No sound came from within. All the team heard was the low buzz of the hallway air conditioning.

"Think he's already bolted?" Tony asked in a low tone.

"His car is still in the parking lot," Ziva said. "Of course, he could have figured we would put out a BOLO on it and called for a cab."

"Trask," Gibbs shouted angrily, "I suggest you open the door!"

Still, there was no reply.

With one well-placed kick from Gibbs, the door swung open and the trio filed in, weapons raised. The apartment was small and had a technology overload décor. The living room (stocked with a computer, a big screen plasma, surround sound, and other gadgets that looked like they were straight out of a 50's sci-fi film) and kitchen (stocked with soda, frozen TV dinners, and chips) were combined into one area with only a small counter separating the two. The walls were bare white and what little furniture he had looked like it had come straight from a second-hand shop. Trask obviously wasn't very interested in interior decoration.

There were only two other doors inside the apartment; one opened to reveal an empty coat closet and the other opened to…

"Gibbs," Ziva called with a grim look. She was standing in the open doorway that led to Trask's room. "I found him."

The older man felt his stomach churn as he neared her. He peeked in and saw the lifeless body lying face down on the bed. A quick survey of the room showed it to be empty, save for the body, so Gibbs stepped in as he pulled on his gloves. "Call Mason," he ordered, referring to the local M.E., Carly Mason. "Tell her to get over here."

"On it, boss," Tony announced as he pulled out his cell phone.

Upon further inspection (as much inspection as he could do without disturbing the body) Gibbs found that Trask was gripping an empty bottle of sleeping pills in his hand. There was also an empty water bottle sitting on the bedside table. At first glance, it would appear to be a suicide.

He examined the surroundings, looking for anything out of place. He found a small overnight bag packed with a couple changes of clothing, as well as a toothbrush and disposable razor.

How many people packed a travel bag before committing suicide?

"It looks like he was planning a trip," Ziva commented as she glanced over Gibbs' shoulder. "So why kill himself?" she asked as though reading his mind.

"I don't think he did," Gibbs responded. His thoughts went back to Patrick Stowe and his similar demise. Stowe's death had been caused by a swim in the Potomac whereas Trask's looked to be the result of an overdose, but each had appeared to be suicides. Now, Stowe's death was looking more and more like a homicide forcing Gibbs to think the same of Trask's. Both men had been pawns in a much larger chess game. Somewhere out there was a king making his plays.

Gibbs intended to find him, he knew, and when he did, the game would not end in a stalemate.

* * *

"Yes, thank you!" Abby gushed to the person on the other end of the phone. Vance watched with interest, having just entered the lab. The Goth was grinning one of her million watt grins and he took that to be a good sign. "Of course I'll be sure to look you up if I'm ever in L.A.! Everyone here thanks you!"

"I hope that was work related," the Director quipped with the trace of a smile.

"Oh, it was," she assured him. "I just spoke to a guy named Studds who works at Skin Art, this L.A. tattoo and piercing parlor. He's a really nice guy, actually; told me if I was ever in town that I should pop in for a free tat."

"Miss Scuito…"

"Sorry," she said sheepishly, "back on topic. Anyway, Studds was, without a doubt, the creator of that tattoo," she said, bringing up the picture of their alleged abductor. "He said it's his own original creation which he did for a group of guys who came in last year. There were about five or six of them, all part of some sort of gang and they called themselves The Sharks. You know, like in _West Side Story_, except without the singing and dancing."

"So our guy is part of a gang?"

"_Was_ part of a gang," she corrected. A few keystrokes brought up two mug shots; one was a Caucasian man with a shaved head and a nose ring and the other was a Hispanic man with slicked-back brown hair and a small scar above his right eyebrow. "Two of the members were arrested five months ago for robbing a liquor store. After that, the remaining members sort of went their separate ways."

Vance pointed to the men on the screen, asking, "I'm guessing these two have an alibi for the abduction?"

"You are correct. Both men have been behind bars since their arrest and will be there for at least another two months."

"What about the other members?"

She frowned. "I don't have any names on them. I was hoping to speak with one of our jailbirds, but the L.A. penitentiary won't let me. You're likely to have more pull in that area."

He nodded. "I'll get right on that. Good work, Miss Scuito." He turned to go, but was stopped by Abby's voice.

"Which one was it?"

Vance looked back over his shoulder and found Abby looking back at him with determination. He didn't need her to elaborate on her question. "Allen Trask," he told her. "They're on their way to pick him up as we speak."

Her black lips tightened. "Will they be bringing him back here?"

"I'm not sure," he told her honestly. "They'll likely deal with him in L.A., seeing as it was in their jurisdiction. Of course, I'll likely be called out there."

Once again he tried to leave, but the stubborn scientist stood her ground. "Any chance I can sneak a ride? You can stick me anywhere on the plane, I promise."

"I don't doubt that," he told her with a small smile, "but considering it'll be SecNav's plane, I'll have to take it up with him. I promise to put in a good word for you, though."

With no further interruptions, Vance exited the lab, leaving Abby alone with her thoughts; they weren't pleasant, mostly revolving around Tim—her favorite geek—alone and hurt in some rundown L.A. location while hunchbacked goons took swings at him in an effort to break him. Tim wasn't supposed to get hurt. He did, sometimes, but he wasn't supposed to, not in Abby's mind.

There was nothing left for her to do at the moment; she had nothing to examine, no footage to watch, and no phone calls to make, leaving her time to fret over the current situation. So Abby reached into one of her drawers and extracted a gift the Sisters had given her for her last birthday. It was a rosary comprised of black crystal beads. With quivering hands and voice, she gently began reciting the prayers that she had learned in grade school, going through the rosary bead by bead.

* * *

"He hasn't been dead long," Mason informed Gibbs. "I'd estimate TOD to be about fifteen minutes before you showed up."

Trask's body had been flipped over onto his back as the ME examined him. While Gibbs consulted with her, Tony and Ziva shuffled around the apartment taking pictures, dusting for prints, and checking for anything suspicious. They'd checked the apartment top to bottom for anything that could lead them to Tim, but there was nothing. If Trask was running an operation with someone else, that someone else was keeping it tight.

"If you're expecting a cause of death, Agent Gibbs, you'll have to wait," Mason said as she began packing up the body. "I can only surmise that it was an overdose of sleeping pills."

"And chance it was a forced suicide?"

"Of course there's a chance, but I don't have enough to prove or disprove it at the moment. If I find something, though, you'll be the first to know."

Unlike Ducky, Mason didn't have the gift of gab; she struck Gibbs as often staying inside her head unless specifically asked a question. She didn't elaborate on anything nor did she indulge him with any drawn-out anecdotes. While it was a refreshing change of pace, it only served to further remind him and the team that they weren't on their own turf here, that their time was limited.

The body was wheeled out, leaving the D.C. trio in the dead mole's apartment. Gibbs picked up the empty water bottle and empty pills bottle, bagging them separately. Seemed open and shut: their mole, seeing he was trapped, took his own life rather than be captured. It wouldn't have been the first time it happened, certainly.

"It doesn't feel right," he told Tony as he handed the other agent the bagged evidence. "I can't imagine Trask having the guts to off himself. He seems like the kind who'd squeal on anyone if it meant he'd be spared too much pain or trouble."

"All the more reason for someone wanting him dead," Tony replied. "No signs of forced entry, though, so he knew his killer and didn't suspect anything."

Gibbs held back an acerbic comment. Trask hadn't been so much corrupt as he had been gullible, so it wasn't surprising that he was duped into the suicide. He almost felt sorry for the kid.

"Have you heard anything from Vance?"

"Nothing yet."

Ziva entered the bedroom with a water bottle in her gloved hand. "I found this in his refrigerator."

"Something suspicious about bottled water?" Tony asked as he examined it.

Gibbs grabbed the bottle and held up it beside the bagged bottle. "The one in his fridge is Dasani but the one that was on Trask's bedside was Evian."

"He has four more bottles of Dasani in his refrigerator and an entire pack of it in one of his cabinets," Ziva told him. "I know that is not a huge break, but I do find it odd."

Gibbs agreed. The bottled water discrepancy had his gut churning, but it wasn't the only thing; nothing was adding up.

"I spoke with one of his neighbors," Ziva added. "She said someone ran down the fire escape around the time we arrived."

"Mason said the TOD wasn't long before we arrived," Tony said. "Whoever killed him was trying to get rid of anything that could tie Trask to him. He heard us at the door and hightailed it out the window."

"Explains why he left without trying to hide Trask's overnight bag."

Gibbs silently berated himself. They had been so close to their dirt bag and had missed him by only moments.

"Ziva, dust for prints on the outside of the window and the fire escape. Then see if you can find a security camera that may have gotten a shot of whoever came down those stairs. Tony, call Abby and have her do a trace on Trask's phone and see what incoming and outgoing calls she can find."

"On it," they chorused in unison as they exited the room, leaving Gibbs alone with his thoughts; they weren't pleasant.

One of his own was out there somewhere and he wasn't going to let him down.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim was ebbing in and out of consciousness. The pain from his injuries had lessened to a low throb, but it hadn't disappeared. Worse yet, there was more on the way.

"You take care of it?"

He heard Moose's low voice and strained to listen to the conversation. It was hard to concentrate, but he immediately recognized the other owner of the other voice as being Boris.

"Yeah. Kid didn't have a clue."

Moose grunted. "Good riddance to him. He was too squeamish."

The prisoner winced. They could only be talking about Trask. While Tim despised the computer geek for turning on his country (not to mention getting Tim captured) he felt a twinge of pity for the guy. He only hoped Trask's demise was better than Stowe's had been.

"How's the fed?"

"He's a smartass."

Upon hearing Moose's disparaging remark, Tim puffed out his chest as much as he could with what felt like a broken rib. While he was deteriorating, his captor was also beginning to crumble from frustration.

"It's a front," Boris claimed. "He'll break eventually."

"I don't think we can wait for eventually."

"You're too impatient. A watched pot never boils."

Tim stifled a laugh. He could just imagine Ziva's confusion upon hearing that particular saying. "I have seen many a pot boil," she would proclaim. "Watching it has nothing to do with whether or not it boils."

To that, Tony would roll his eyes and exasperatedly respond, "It's an expression."

Her eyes would light up in understanding. "Oh! I see!" Then, just when they thought the lost in translation moment was over, she would ruin it by continuing with, "That is like when the pot calls the kettle black, yes?" and the whole cycle would begin anew until Gibbs entered and administered his famous head slaps.

Tim giggled with delusion. He could still remember the first time his boss' hand had smacked against the back of his skull. Oddly enough, he hadn't minded; the head smack had been like an initiation for him, like he now belonged. The head smacks had kept him on his toes, taught him to anticipate.

What he wouldn't give for a head smack right now.

"What're you giggling at?"

Tim opened his weary eyes. Boris was standing in front of him with a knife in hand. The captor was running the blade gently along the palm of his hand. When he reached the tip, he precariously pressed his forefinger against it.

"I was just thinking of what they're going to do to you."

Boris' lip curled into a sneer. "Who?"

"My team." Tim took a deep breath and swallowed the saliva that had begun to build up in his mouth. "They don't like when people…" Another swallow. "…when people mess with their Probie."

The man's hand shot out and roughly grabbed Tim's face. He pushed his captive's head back until his Adam's apple jutted out beneath his skin. In the haze of his mind, Tim was vaguely aware of the knife's sharp point being pressed against his neck. In his current state of exhaustion he couldn't quite bring himself to care much.

"I've been pretty patient, Agent McGee. I'm not stupid; I figured you'd put up resistance at first. You've held out longer than I expected, I admit that much, but you can't hold out forever."

"How many days?" Tim garbled

"What?"

"How many days has it been?"

Boris glowered, aware of where this was going. "Day and a half."

Tim let out a small laugh. "Then I only have to hold out another day and a half. That was the wager, right?" He took a rasping breath. "I think I can handle that."

The knife pressed further into Tim's neck. "It's not going to be the picnic it's been. We're going to up the ante. Last chance to change your mind."

"G-go screw your…s-self," he stuttered.

His captor didn't wait another second. The knife was plunged into Tim's fleshy thigh. He jerked in excruciating pain and let out a guttural screech.

Boris looked at his handiwork in satisfaction. "I'll leave you to rethink your words, Agent McGee," he snarled. "I promise you, things are only going to get worse."

* * *

Gibbs grabbed the ringing phone from his pocket and answered it with his usual gruff greeting. Director Vance was on the other line with good news. "We've got a name on the guy who picked McGee up from the airport," he informed Gibbs. "His name is Max Holder. He's been arrested twice in the past; once for stabbing a man during a bar fight and the other time for stealing from a Best Buy where he was working in the stockroom. I've e-mailed you his files. They're in the attachments"

"E-mail attachments, Leon?" he asked with a beginnings of a grin.

On the other end, Vance grinned as well. "No time for the snail mail on this one. Seeing as you've cleared the other L.A. computer geeks, maybe one of them can help you with it."

Unfortunately, good news was often accompanied by bad news. "Trask is dead," Gibbs informed Director Vance. "He was dead when we arrived. It looked like a suicide, but I don't think it was."

If Vance was surprised he didn't say so. "Homicide disguised as a suicide," he commented. "That sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"This case is certainly bringing back quite a few memories, isn't it, Leon?"

"That it is," he concurred. "I've got Scuito going through Trask's phone records and Holder's. They had to have slipped up somewhere. I'll keep you informed."

"You do that," Gibbs said before hanging up. He thought of what Vance had said. It was true, their perpetrators had most likely made a mistake somewhere along the line; most criminals did. They got cocky and sloppy, thought themselves invincible. No criminal was too good or too slick, especially not when they had Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his team on their tale.

"Boss!" Tony called as he entered the conference room where Gibbs currently was seated. "The forensics team sent me the results of their testing. They tested the inside of the water bottle that was on Trask's bedside table."

"They get anything, DiNozzo?"

The younger agent placed the forensics report down on the table before Gibbs. "In layman's terms, the droplets of water that coated the inside of the bottle had traces of sleeping pill residue mixed with them. So the sleeping pills were dropped into the water and they dissolved in there."

"That would make it easy to dupe someone. You have to imagine Trask was getting nervous. His partner shows up, tries to calm him down and hands him the bottle of drugged water under the pretense of trying to calm his nerves. The kid probably never even knew what hit him."

"Think we can officially declare Trask's death a homicide?"

"I didn't know we hadn't already, DiNozzo. Where's Ziva?"

"She and Eric Beal are looking through footage they pulled from the security cameras near the fire escape."

Gibbs wrote down the name of their newest suspect and handed it to Tony. "I want everything you can find on him. Friends, family, past employers, bank records, and recent credit card purchases. Get Beal to help if you need to, but I want this guy's life history."

Tony looked at the name in confusion, but didn't question the order. "You've got it boss. Mind telling me who this guy is?"

"Hopefully he's the key to finding McGee."

* * *

She couldn't be sure if it was the thirteen Caf-Pows she'd downed in the last few hours or simply her joy on finally hitting a big break, but Abby felt the overwhelming urge to do a cartwheel right there in her lab. Never one to ignore her urges, she catapulted herself onto her hands, letting her legs soar through the air above her. It was only when her feet slammed to the ground that she saw Director Vance standing in the doorway.

"Good news, I hope."

"_Great_ news," she corrected as she excitedly pulled him in the way a child pulls its parents around at Disney World. "Trask has a toll tag. Well, he had one, at least." She clicked a few keys on her keyboard and brought up a document.

"Toll tag?"

"It's for people whose commutes take them through tolls on a regular basis; kind of like our version of Metro passes. You get a decal on your car so you can drive right through the tolls instead of having to slow down at a booth and pay the toll."

"I follow you so far."

"I was confused at first because the quickest route from Trask's apartment to NCIS headquarters didn't require him to hit a toll. Then I thought that maybe he was meeting up with his co-conspirator somewhere nearer the edge of the city to avoid being spotted by co-workers. When I checked the history of his toll tag, I saw that he consistently hit up the toll bridge near the north of L.A."

Vance looked over the documented history. As Abby had said, Trask's car was always marked as passing through one particular toll nearly five times every week for the past two months. "What's up that way, Miss Scuito?"

Abby frowned. "Well, quite a bit. But he's already driving almost half an hour away from his apartment, so I figure he's going no more than another half-hour away from the toll booth. I'll see if I can get a more definite location."

"What about Trask's cell calls?"

"I didn't get much. His last outgoing call was to a burn phone. In fact, aside from a few calls to his mother in Florida, all of his incoming and outgoing calls have been to burn phones. I have the numbers of the phones, but I don't know that it'll do much good."

Sensing the woman's downheartedness, Vance gave her a comforting pat on the back. "You've done well," he assured her, "just keep at it. Gibbs and his team are doing their part out west. We'll find him."

"Before he's seriously hurt?" she asked. "Or worse?"

Vance wished he could answer her. Instead, he repeated, "We will find him."


	10. Chapter 10

The security footage pulled near the fire escape proved to be helpful. Ziva found that out as Eric paused the footage as a man was seen hustling down the fire escape. The video's timestamp matched their estimated time of arrival to Trask's place and the man was the only one they'd seen coming down the steps so far. He was a scruff man with a five o'clock shadow and a harsh scowl on his face. The man looked to be in his late 30's and had a medium build.

"That's got to be our guy," Eric said as he zoomed in on the face.

"Could you print out the picture?" Ziva asked. She turned to find that Eric was already in the process of doing so. The printer whirred to life and moments later a picture of the face was spit out. It was grainy, but the picture was good, good enough to see that it wasn't Max Holder. Whoever it was had made no effort to hide his face, indicating to Ziva that the man was cocky and thought he had no reason to be on guard. That cockiness had been to their benefit.

"I'll start running a facial recognition program," Eric told her. With a few keystrokes, the man's face appeared on the screen while various pictures sped by beside it.

Ziva picked up the printed photo and studied the man with hatred. So this was the man who thought it would be a good idea to abduct her co-worker. It had been this man's plan, of that she was sure. Holder hadn't the brain power to plot such a thing and Trask' hadn't had the guts. This was the ringleader of their little treasonous circus and she hoped she could meet him very soon.

She stood, photo in hand, telling Eric, "I will bring this to Gibbs and Hettie. Perhaps they have more information."

The hallways of the L.A. headquarters were much quieter than the ones in D.C. to which she'd grown accustomed. The only thing she heard as she hastened to find the two bosses were the clicks of her heels against the marble floor. Also, unlike the D.C. headquarters, these L.A. headquarters felt cold. Not cold as in temperature, but just cold…not homey the way her hometown NCIS was. She felt more like a stranger here than she'd been when she'd first arrived at NCIS years ago. It made her wonder how Tim could have chosen them over her and the rest of the team. Would he have really liked it here? Sure, they seemed far more tech savvy than D.C. headquarters did, but there wasn't the same family-like atmosphere that one found in D.C. Besides, would Tim have been truly happy working with nothing but computers? Wouldn't he have preferred to work in an office that recognized him as more than a geek; as a qualified field agent?

Ziva shook her head, reminding herself that Tim had obviously had his reasons for wanting a change of scenery and that it wasn't anyone's place to judge him for it, let alone hers. She understood all too well that feeling of frustration and restlessness, that want to do something new, to get away from the life you've known day in and day out for the past years. It happened, even to someone like Tim.

When they found him—because in her mind there was no if; they _would_ find him—she would put forth the effort to make sure he never again wished to leave D.C.

"Gibbs!"

The silver-haired patriarch of their NCIS family had just exited one of the rooms, pulling Ziva from her thoughts. The diminutive Hettie Lange was right behind him as Ziva hurried to catch up with them. "We are almost positive this is our man," she explained as she handed him the print out. "Beal is running a facial recognition analysis on the photo. Not sure how long it could take to get a hit."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow as he looked behind Ziva. "From the way he's running to catch up with us, it looks like it didn't take long."

Sure enough, the bespectacled young man was jogging toward the group and he looked as though he had something big.

"I got a hit."

Yes, _that_ was big.

"How?" Ziva asked incredulously. "You only just began."

"Because our facial recognition system starts with the federal agencies."

Gibbs looked up from the photo. "And this man works for a federal agency?"

"Worked," Eric corrected. "His name is Nicolas Askov and he was a CIA employee. They terminated his position two years ago."

"For what?"

Eric fidgeted nervously. "Not sure yet. His file is locked."

"What did he do for the CIA?"

"On the surface he was a translator, but if his file is under lock and key then I have a feeling he was part of something more."

Gibbs felt his jaw tighten as his grip closed in on the photo, crumpling it in the process. "Find out more."

"I think I could be of help in that respect," Hettie cut in. She gave the group a wink, explaining, "I have a bit of pull with their Director and I think I'd get the information more quickly than poor Eric could hack through their servers."

"Fine," Gibbs agreed with a wave of his hand just as his phone began to ring. It was Abby. "What've you got, Abbs?"

"An area half an hour north of L.A.," she replied. "They've got an area of abandoned warehouses out there. Max Holder worked as a forklift operator out there for a few months until the company went under and they had to close the warehouses down."

"Give me the address," he said, signaling to Ziva to hand him a pen. He scribbled the address out on the back of the photo. "Thanks, Abbs."

"Gibbs…"

"We'll find him," he assured her, knowing the question before she asked. "I'll keep you informed."

Ziva didn't need to be given orders. "I'll grab the Sedan," she said as Gibbs hit the speed dial number for Tony's phone.

"DiNozzo," he said before the other agent could say anything, "meet me and Ziva downstairs now."

* * *

What a light, dizzying feeling this was. It was much like the feeling he had when he drank too much, only this wasn't accompanied by an upset stomach. No, this dizzy feeling was accompanied by a far more searing pain.

The blade dragged down his arm, slicing through the tender skin. Red blood oozed through the slit, down in a small stream. Tim tried not to look at it. He needed to keep his mind occupied.

"So, Gibbs," he said with shallow breaths, "my boss…he's a former Marine sniper. He once shot this guy in Somalia from, like, a mile away."

Boris was unimpressed. "Then it's a good thing there are no windows in this place." This time he brought the knife down the center of Tim's torso, leaving a blazing red wound on his bruised chest.

Tim sucked in a breath, but didn't stop. "And Ziva…she…she was trained with Mossad as an assassin. She's got a fondness for weapons and has a talent for torture. Would…probably make your look like child's play."

A knee collided forcefully with Tim's gut and he doubled over in his seat, drool dribbling from his lips. He felt vomit gurgling in his stomach, trying to force its way up and out, but he refused to let it deter him. "Tony was a cop with the Baltimore PD…so he's got friends in very high places."

Another blow to his torso, this one breaking a rib.

"And…and…Abby…" he finally got out through his labored breathing, "is a forensics genius and she can kill you without leaving any evidence."

"Would you shut up already?" Boris snarled. He was growing tired of this game, tired of smacking this smartass fed around and not getting anywhere.

"If you think I can't shut up…you should meet Ducky…" Tim slurred. "Nice guy…just so long-winded…you'll get to hear him, though…he'll…he'll be the one performing the autopsy on you."

Boris grabbed Tim by the hair, roughly pulling the follicles up so that Tim's eyes met his. "I'm getting impatient," he said, droplets of spit spewing out and hitting Tim in the face.

The prisoner smiled shakily. "G-g-good." His bravado disappeared when he heard a snap and felt a horrid pain in his hand. Tim didn't need to look and see that his right pinky had been broken.

"You've got more to go," Boris reminded him.

"I've h-had w-w-worse." It wasn't true, but Tim was too busy swallowing back a squeal of pain to care. "T-told you I wa-wasn't soft…"

There was no agreement from his tormentor, just a pop to his mouth. It knocked him out, giving him a much needed respite. It wouldn't be a long rest, but it would give Boris and Moose time to regroup and re-strategize.

Time was running short for both the captive and his captors.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony tried to count how many driving laws Gibbs broke as he sped toward the cluttering of empty warehouses, but he ended up getting distracted when his stomach rumbled with nausea. He'd lost the shotgun spot to Ziva and the backseat had a tendency to affect his delicate tummy.

"Abby, how much longer?" Gibbs asked. The lab girl was on the other end of the car phone, watching their progress.

"You're about ten minutes away from them."

"Gibbs, even once we get there, we do not know which warehouse they are keeping McGee in," Ziva pointed out. "It will take time to check them all. They have already had him for two days; who knows what damage they have done in that time?"

"Probie's got spunk," Tony commented.

"I do not doubt that. It does not mean we will find him in a particularly pretty state. He will have been hurt physically and mentally."

"For once, Ziva, can you try to be positive?"

"Why don't you both shut up," Gibbs said, stopping the spat. "Which way should I turn, Abbs?"

"Okay, you should be coming up to a light. Make a right onto that street and go down one mile. You'll see the warehouses."

He did as he was told, turning at such a speed that the left side tires lifted off the ground for a second. The vehicle crashed back down, shaking its occupants, but it never stopped. In the distance loomed the warehouses. Everything was vacant.

Gibbs pulled the car along side the gate that enclosed the warehouses. "Looks like someone's here," he said, pointing to a chain lock hanging limply open. "Spread out," he ordered. "Tony, you take the ones to the right, Ziva, the ones to the left. I'll start in the center and work through those. You see something hinky, you call it."

They both nodded.

"Now go!"

* * *

Every man had his breaking point and Tim was well aware that he was reaching his. With every breath he took, his body trembled violently. Any hope that this whole things would finish with a Hollywood ending was long gone; now he was just hoping it would end with some form of a happy ending.

His right hand was now useless. He tried to keep it as still as he could. The fingers hung at odd, distorted angles. Tim tried not to look at how mangled his hand had become.

His tongue felt like sandpaper against the top of his mouth. He hadn't had anything to drink in…well…in a long time. What he wouldn't give for a sip of water. His throat was horridly dry and when he spoke—what little he spoke—the words came out in rasps.

A hand smacked against the back of his head and for a moment, Tim thought the entire ordeal had been a dream, that he was sitting in the bullpen with Tony, Ziva, and Gibbs. His eyes popped open; it was Boris' hand that had smacked him on the back of his head.

"Sleeping, Agent McGee?" the man sneered. Moose was right behind him.

Tim scrunched his eyes closed again. "Resting," he replied breathlessly.

Boris' hand slapped against his head once more, this time harder. The force of the smack propelled him forward and he had to take a few moments to steady himself. "No rest," Boris told him. "We've still got work to do."

"_You_ have work to do," Tim corrected. "I've got nothing to do."

For his insolence, Tim suffered a punch to his gut. That was followed by a backhand to his face.

"Your cheekiness is growing old," Boris said as he watched his prisoner attempt to catch his breath. "It'd be hard to mouth off so much if I cut out your tongue, now wouldn't it?"

"Probably," Tim agreed. He was huddled over as far as his bound body could go, his head hanging down. God, he was so tired…

Boris' hand grabbed at his hair and yanked him upright. The poor agent's eyes were red and bleary. His lids drooped no matter how hard he tried to keep them up. "Maybe the tongue is the best bet then. Can't cut out an eye, right? Need you to be able to see if you're going to hack into federal agencies."

"Need my hands too," Tim mumbled, "but that didn't stop you from breaking that."

"Two hands would be more helpful, but you only _need_ one hand," Boris corrected. "Though you do bring up an interesting point." His hand moved from Tim's hair to the man's chin, holding it firm in his grasp. "Maybe you only need one eye to get the job done."

Tim didn't like to think about one of his eyes being cut out. In fact, he didn't like to think about anyone's eyes being cut out. Eyeballs were so…disgusting. Now that he'd had that image in his head, he couldn't scrub his brain clean of it. So he did the only thing he could do. He vomited. It wasn't much as he'd had little to eat, but it was enough.

The captive took a few steps back as the vomit splattered over him. "Shit!" he hissed. "Max! Go get me a towel," he barked at his henchman. Even in his weary mind, Tim took note of the name. "Tell me you didn't do that on purpose, Agent McGee."

A giggle reverberated in Tim's throat. "I'm not that talented. I just have a weak stomach sometimes." As he sagged down in his seat, he felt the ropes falling from his wrists.

"Enough," Boris said as he pulled Tim to his feet. He dragged the half-conscious man into another area and pushed him down into a seat. Tim blinked his eyes open and saw that he was sitting before a computer. "Now you are going to do what I've asked you to do."

The poor man felt his head dipping down as he floated between various states of mind. He knew what was going to happen to him if he didn't do what he was told, but it was hard to care much. Even if he wanted to help betray his country, he was in no condition to hack into a high school computer, let alone the biggest government agencies in America. His mind was fuzz.

"Listen to me when I talk to you," Boris spat out with another smack to Tim's head.

"Can't." Tim swallowed a bit of acidic bile. "Can't hack anything."

"You're in no position to be noble, McGee. I _will_ make your last moments of life the most painful you've ever had if you disobey me."

"I don't doubt it," Tim mumbled in reply, "but I can't do anything. I can barely read what it says on the screen." His head rolled back, his eyes closed. "Guess you over did, huh?"

Boris' hand clutched the back of Tim's head tightly. When Tim opened his eyes, he saw the angry man's face only inches away from his own. "Listen to me, you government pig! I have come too far to have you peter out this way. Now I want you to take every ounce of energy you have left in your pitiful body and channel it into getting this done. Got it?"

Tim looked up with clouded eyes and said something that infuriated the man. "No."

In a moment of rage, the man's hand struck Tim with great force, knocking him into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

* * *

Tony finished checking through the second warehouse, but saw no sign of his teammate. He called it in to Gibbs before moving on to the next one. His heart was beating a mile a minute as he feared for the safety of the man. He knew enough about this sort of thing to know that, after this long, Tim's chances of coming out of it safely were near zero. But he wouldn't give up.

He peered into the next warehouse, gun in hand. At first glance it would seem that the place was empty. Tony stepped in carefully and looked around. The warehouse was an echoing barren with nothing more than a couple slabs of wood and a few dead rats filling it; he tried not to notice the latter. He took soft steps, not wanting to alert anyone who might be there to his presence.

After walking along the inside perimeter of the warehouse, he'd found nothing. He was about to call it in and move on to the next one, but then he heard something. The voices were soft, but he heard them. They obviously weren't coming from within the warehouse and a quick look through the window showed that there was no one outside. That only left one place…

Gently, Tony fell to his knees and pressed his ear to the ground. He crawled along the floor, working his way toward the voices.

"…cut our losses and get out of here before they come sniffing around here."

"This isn't the kind of thing you just walk away from. I have been planning this for far to long to give up on it now."

"You're not thinking! It won't be long before those feds show up here!"

"And what could they possibly have to connect them with this place? Trask sure as hell won't be talking."

"When are you going to get it through your head that the kid isn't going to do it? Just put him out of his damn misery and let's move on!"

The voice laughed. "I'm not in the mood to put him out of his misery just yet."

Tony stood shakily and backed out of the warehouse. "Gibbs!" he hissed in a hushed tone. "We have persons of interest in Warehouse Three! I repeat, Warehouse Three!"


	12. Chapter 12

It took only moments for Gibbs and Ziva to reach Tony, but it seemed more like an eternity to him. When they entered, he held a finger to his lips before motioning them over to the area where he'd heard the voices. "Someone's down there," he said in a voice just barely above a whisper.

Ziva looked around for an entrance, a trap door, or anything that could possibly lead them to an underground area. Nothing popped out at her. "We need to find how they have gotten down there."

"Tell me something I don't know, Ziva."

"Hey," Gibbs cut in with a harsh whisper. Even at such a low tone he commanded attention. "Less talking and more looking. Tony, keep an ear to the ground and let us know if you hear anything. Ziva, to the left, I'll go right."

Tony fell once again to his knees and pressed his ear to the ground. The voices had fallen silent. He hoped that was because they had stopped talking and not because they had walked out of earshot of him.

Ziva peered around the corner, gun in hand, lest someone should be there. She kept her eyes to the ground as she swiftly made her way along the outside of the warehouse. The problem was that they didn't know how wide the underground area was, meaning the entrance could be just about anywhere on this property. The question was, how would a person hide an entrance in an empty area like this? The only things there were the warehouses.

She headed into the next warehouse, eyes peeled for anything.

Gibbs hadn't run immediately along the outer-length of the building. Instead, he'd stood in his spot, observing his surroundings and considering the situation. If there was an underground area on the premises, it made sense that it had served some sort of purpose to the company that had owned the property. The access entrance shouldn't be too difficult to find.

He walked slowly around the warehouse, concentrating on the steps; how they sounded when they slapped against the pavement and how they felt. He looked for crevices that would indicate a slab of concrete could be lifted up, but it all looked perfectly smooth.

"Just checked Warehouse Four," Ziva said into his earpiece. "Nothing there. I am moving on to the next one."

"They've gone silent, boss," was Tony's hushed comment.

Gibbs took a few more steps. It killed him to work at such an agonizingly slow pace, but he didn't have much of a choice. Rushing around, he knew, wouldn't help them find Tim.

These things took time, but it was time they didn't have.

* * *

"Go into town," Nicolas ordered. "Buy more rope, garbage bags, and a shovel."

Max obediently grabbed his jacket and began to pull it on. "We burying the kid?"

"Eventually," Nicolas replied in a sinister tone. "I've still got a few tricks in my bag."

The henchman grabbed the keys to the car he'd stolen earlier that day—he'd had to get rid of the SUV, just in case someone at the airport could identify it—and turned to go. He stopped when he heard Nicolas call out behind him.

"Get some ammonia, too," the boss ordered. Seeing his lackey's confused look, he explained, "We need something to revive him with when he passes out."

While Max headed out, Nicolas went to see how their guest was doing. Tim was still unconscious and unmoving. He had to double check just to make sure the guy was breathing. It would have been a shame to have him die now.

He tapped a finger against Tim's cheek. "Wakey-wakey," he said in a sing-song voice. The man stirred slightly, but he didn't awake. Normally it would incite Nicolas' anger, but in this case he only smiled. "You sleep," he said to the still form. "You'll need a good rest."

* * *

Tony was still prostrate on the floor, listening intently. The silence was almost deafening.

"Go into town."

The voice had been loud and clear, causing Tony to perk up. "Buy more rope, garbage bags, and a shovel."

"One of them is going to exit," he said into the receiver. "Be on the look out for someone leaving."

"We are on it, Tony," Ziva replied.

He put his head back down. "We burying the kid?" asked another voice. Tony assumed that was Max, the goon.

"Eventually," said the first voice in a tone so cold it made Tony shiver. "I've still got a few tricks in my bag." There was a moment of silence before the voice added, "Get some ammonia, too. We need something to revive him with when he passes out."

It wasn't the first time in his life that Tony wished he had the power to break through solid concrete, but it was the first time in his life that he'd wished for it so desperately.

* * *

Max slid behind the wheel of the Camaro. He had to admit it was one of his better steals. Who wouldn't feel powerful behind the wheel of this? It was too bad he'd have to trash it soon.

He started the car, taking a moment to admire the purr of the engine. It helped him forget about the half-dead federal agent they had sitting down there. It wasn't that Max was squeamish; he'd known damn well what he was getting himself into. The thing was that Max preferred brute. He liked to knock a guy's lights out and if the guy happened to die from it, so be it. Nicolas, though…he liked to take a more subtle approach to things. Whereas Max's intent was to cause pain, Nicolas' was to extract information or cooperation, and those were two very different intentions. Nicolas had far more patience than Max did, and that was beginning to wear on the latter man. He needed to get out of there before cops showed up.

As he put the Camaro into drive, he considered his options. He could, of course, do as he'd been told to do; he also could cut all ties with Nicolas and the fed and make a run for it. He had a car, he had money, and he had nothing tying him to the case.

It was a very attractive thought to him.

* * *

"Car engine revving," Ziva announced. "Coming from a warehouse near the back of the lot."

"I heard it," Gibbs confirmed. "I'll meet you over there. Tony, follow us."

From three different locations of the lot, the team made their way toward the sound. It was centralized in second warehouse from the left all the way in the back. "No movement," Gibbs noted. He was making his way from the left of the warehouse. Ziva, he saw, was all the way on the right, while Tony was coming up quickly through the center of them.

Suddenly, a silver Camaro shot out from the warehouse with a large man at the wheel. Gibbs was closest to it; he and Tony ran toward it, hoping to cut it off. The fact that it was a car that could easily run them both over without so much as stopping meant nothing to them.

Gibbs ran out in front of it and held his gun up, aiming it at the driver. It was now a game of chicken, each waiting to see which would budge first. Gibbs hadn't lost a game of chicken yet, but there was a first time for everything.

Tony was closing in on the car as well with Ziva not far behind. The vehicle didn't seem to be slowing down, even with a gun-wielding man standing in its way. It looked as though the car would just barrel on through the fortress known as Leroy Jethro Gibbs and keep going.

_BANG!_

_BLAST!_

There was a loud bang, followed by a blast from one of the Camaro's tires. The car spun as its driver tried to regain control. There was a squealing of tires and the car crashed into a light post. The airbag inflated, knocking the driver in the face and giving the team extra time.

"What the hell was that?" Tony asked.

Ziva gave him a smile. "I have found that aiming for the tires is the best way to stop a car."

Max hadn't time to grab his gun. He was too busy pushing down the airbag and tending to his bloody nose. That made it all the easier for Gibbs to reach the car and pull the door open. He pulled the man out roughly and threw him to the ground.

"That's Max Holder," Tony said as he checked the car for any signs of Tim.

"Where's my agent?" Gibbs commanded. When Max didn't immediately respond, he grew angrier. "Where is he?" he demanded.

"Gibbs!" Ziva called. She was standing outside the warehouse from where the car had come. "I found the stairs!"

"No sign of the Probie in here," Tony added as he closed the trunk of the car.

"Get up," Gibbs ordered as he pulled a still dazed Max up from the ground. He shoved the man against the car and twisted his arms behind his back. He slapped handcuffs on him and shoved him in the back of the car. "You so much as move an inch from this spot, I will shoot you myself," he snarled before slamming the door shut.

Tony and Gibbs ran toward Ziva. "Sure it's a smart idea to leave him unattended, boss?"

"He's not going anywhere, DiNozzo."

This warehouse, they saw, had something that none of the others did: a door situated on the far end. When opened, it revealed a descending staircase. Gibbs motioned for them to be silent as they entered. They wanted to take Nicolas by surprise. They carefully made their way down, ready to take their man home.

* * *

Nicolas sat at the table, a bottle of water in hand. He glanced at his watch. Of course, Max had only just left, so it was ridiculous to hope he would be back any time soon.

A moan echoed in the other room. His prisoner was returning to the land of the living, it seemed. Well, he would leave Agent McGee to that. Let the kid have a few moments of peace. He would need them.

It was becoming increasingly obvious to Nicolas that he had bet on the wrong horse. The fed was tougher than Nicolas had given him credit for. In his increasing anger and impatience, Nicolas had only succeeded in beating Agent McGee into a stupor that rendered him virtually useless. He would need a week or so of rest before he'd be able to hack anything, and that was time Nicolas didn't have.

His head snapped up suddenly. Was it his imagination or had he just heard something? Nicolas stood motionless, straining to listen. Yep, that was definitely a footstep he'd heard, followed by another and they were getting closer. It couldn't be Max; he would have announced himself boisterously and Nicolas knew the man to have heavy footsteps. That meant that the person descending the steps was a foe, not a friend.

Gun in hand, Nicolas retreated into the other room. Tim was still out, though he looked as though he was returning to consciousness. Nicolas stepped behind him and placed his free hand on Tim's shoulder. With his other hand, he pressed the gun against the back of Tim's head.

Now he would wait.

The bunker was at least six feet below the ground and surrounded completely by concrete. Gibbs took the lead with Ziva behind him and Tony bringing up the rear. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he saw a doorway cut into the concrete and covered with a curtain. He stopped and turned, gesturing for Ziva to step to the right. Tenderly he took the side of the curtain, giving the other two a count of three with his fingers. Then he threw open the curtain

Ziva lifted her weapon…but the area was empty. She stepped in with Tony and Gibbs nearby. The area looked like a small apartment, except underground. There was a table, a couple of chairs, a few boxes of non-perishable food, and a large crate of bottled water. Ziva noticed a bottle of water on the table and pointed it out to the other two. Unless there was another way out of the underground bunker, Nicolas Askov was still nearby.

There were only two other doorways to choose. One was a bathroom that was clearly empty. That left only one other option.

"Ah," Nicolas greeted as the trio entered, "you must be the famous team I've heard so much about. Gibbs, David, and DiNozzo, I believe?"

Tim's eyes were closed tight and his breathing was labored. He was still alive, which was a blessing, but he looked like he was in horrible shape. They could only imagine what things had been done to him; they didn't _want_ to imagine it.

"Nicolas Askov?" Gibbs asked, though he knew it was their man.

"Very good, Agent Gibbs. I see you have done your homework."

"I always do my homework on dirt bags. I like to know exactly who I'm about to kill."

Nicolas smiled mirthlessly as he pressed the barrel of the gun further against Tim's head. "Unless you wish to see your agent's brains splattered against you all, I suggest you lower your weapons."

"You kill him," Gibbs said evenly, "and I will see to it that the last moments of your miserable life are filled with more pain than you have ever known."

"That is a chance I'm willing to take. Are you willing to risk his life?"

There was a beat as all four kept their weapons where they were. Then, Gibbs ordered, "DiNozzo, David: lower your weapons."

Tony and Ziva exchanged looks, but did as they were told.

"Drop them to the floor and kicked them behind you," Nicolas added. They looked to Gibbs who nodded, and so they obliged. "And now you, Agent Gibbs."

"No," the man disagreed, "not yet. If I put down my weapon, you'll kill him anyway."

"So you wish to negotiate?"

Gibbs didn't respond; he was waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, he saw it. In a moment of cockiness—Nicolas' obvious downfall—the man let his grip go lax. One bullet shot out from Gibbs' gun and it planted itself firmly in Nicolas' head. The body dropped with a heavy thud. Tim, though, remained unconscious, blissfully unaware of how close he'd just come to meeting that same fate.

A split second after Nicolas' body hit the ground, Tony and Ziva sprang into action, untying Tim and checking his wounds. Ziva ran back up to call for an ambulance.

Gibbs shuffled to the lifeless form and look down at him. His eyes were still open, though they were glazed over. A dab of red had oozed out from the wound in his head. "I don't negotiate," he said to the dead body.


	13. Chapter 13

Tim remained in a state of unconsciousness as he was transported to the nearest hospital. Gibbs rode in the ambulance along with him while Tony and Ziva followed behind with Max Holder handcuffed in the backseat.

On the way, Gibbs called Hettie to give her a SitRep. "Askov is dead," was the first thing he said. "Holder's in custody. McGee's still alive, but he's in bad shape. We're on our way to the hospital now."

"I have Askov's CIA file," Hettie told him. "I'll meet you there with it. Quite a good read, if I do say so myself."

Tim was immediately admitted into ICU for his broken bones and wounds. Every finger on his right hand had been broken, along with four ribs and his fibula and tibia. They also had to tend to the various cuts left on his body and the deep stab wound inflicted upon his left thigh. It was susceptible to infection, so they needed to keep a close eye on it.

Hettie arrived a few minutes after the rest of them had. She came with Sam and Callen, who would transport Holder back to NCIS headquarters. She also came bearing a gift. "Here you are," she said as she handed the file over to Gibbs. "And where is our agent?"

He opened the file and began reading. "Still in there as far as I know." They had been forced to stay in the waiting room while the doctors worked on Tim. Not even Gibbs' trademark glare worked on the L.A. nurses. "Nicolas Askov," he read aloud. "Born in St. Petersburg but brought to America shortly after."

"Eric was correct; Askov was hired as a translator. He was fluent in Russian, Polish, and Arabic. He mostly helped in the interrogations of foreign prisoners. About three years ago, he was brought along to help translate a discussion with an espionage suspect. That evening, the prisoner escaped and it was suspected that he'd had help on the inside. Askov was questioned, but they had no reason to believe he was behind it. Three months later, he and one of the other agents—a man by the name of Mitch Cameron—were on their way to meet with an informant who had contacted the agency claiming he knew the whereabouts of their suspect. They were ambushed and Cameron was killed. A little prying found that Askov had an offshore account with large periodic deposits being made from a Moscow account. By that time, Askov had vanished. He was officially expelled from the agency and his file was locked. They've been after him for quite sometime."

"The agents we sent down to his bunker found a safe with fake IDs and passports," Sam added. "Looks as though he's been living under a couple of different aliases these past two years."

Gibbs' eyes scanned through the file. Indeed, it seemed Askov had played a part in a few treasonous acts while in the CIA. He wondered how many other offenses Askov had committed that had never been found out. "I get the feeling CIA wants to lead the investigation.'

"You know them well," Hettie commented with a smile. "I have already got our legal department setting up a wall of paper work and red tape. It won't hold them off forever, of course, but it should slow them down. But he was a CIA agent, after all."

"They can have his body. Our ME doesn't need an autopsy to know what killed him." He handed the file back to her as a nurse came through the door.

"Are you the party here with Timothy McGee?" she asked as they all stood. "His condition is stable. We're still working on setting his wounds and keeping out infections, but we should have him moved into a room within the hour. Once that happens, you can visit him two at a time, though I doubt he'll be awake for a while."

"Is he going to be okay?" Ziva asked. It sounded so strange to ask such a question; he obviously was _not_ okay. But the nurse understood.

"Death is unlikely at this point, unless there's an infection. The breaks will take a while to heal and he'll need a lot of help. As far as how well he'll be able to move about once they are healed, well, that's hard to say. We'll have to wait until he begins physical therapy. There may be some lasting repercussions. For now, we're treating as best as we can. I'll let you know when you can visit with him."

They were silent for a few moments after that. They had a lot to think about. Their friend was hurt and before him lay a rocky road to recovery. Not only that, but the reason he was even in this position was that he had thought it necessary to leave the east coast. They couldn't help but wonder why that was.

"I called Abby," Tony spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Figured I should let her know what was going on."

"Director Vance is on his way out here as we speak," Hettie informed them. "From what I know about Miss Scuito, she most likely smuggled her way aboard."

Gibbs grinned in agreement. It was true, Abby wasn't one to take "no" for an answer. He doubted that even SecNav could have kept her away.

"I'm sure she has also bought every bouquet of black roses she could find," Ziva added in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Too bad she's not here now," said Tony. "If she were, we'd probably be in there with McGee instead of sitting around out here. No one says 'no' to Abby."

* * *

There was a haze hanging all around Tim as he ebbed in and out of consciousness. He could hear voices echoing around him, but they sounded so far away. When he slowly opened his eyes, everything seemed out of focus, like a poorly developed picture. He could make out shapes, but they all looked so blurred. He blinked rapidly. The last time he'd awoken in this condition, he'd been abducted by a sadistic Russian man.

"Looks like Probie's coming to."

That voice was familiar to him. He tried to turn his head to where he heard the voice, but his movements felt so slow, like it took every ounce of energy he had to do anything. It probably did.

"Don't move too much, McGee," he heard Gibbs order. "Your body's still sore and recovering."

"Where am I?" That's what he'd intended to say. What it came out as, though, was, "Wr 'm I?" Luckily for him, the team was fluent in gibberish.

"You're at the hospital, Probie. You've got a lot of broken bones and when those painkillers wear off you'll probably want one of us to put you out of your misery. On the bright side, you're still alive."

"Uhhh," Tim groaned in response. The being alive part sounded great, but he didn't really like the part about the pain.

"Abby should be here soon," Ziva said, "but don't worry; we will make sure she does not hug you _too_ hard."

"'bby?"

"She hopped a ride with Vance on SecNav's private jet."

Then there was a different voice, one he didn't completely recognize. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Agent McGee. I'm sorry that our headquarters were used to lure you into this trap and I hope that this in no way paints us in a poor light."

He blinked rapidly, bringing things into focus. The faces he recognized: Gibbs' steely blue eyes accompanied by a fatherly look of concern; Tony's handsomely chiseled face that always made him look mischievous; Ziva's deep brown eyes, framed by her softly falling curls. He recognized them all, except for the last one. "Wr you?"

The face in question was an older one, framed by a black bob. Dark eyes peered at him from behind thick, round glasses. At his slurred question, the mouth split into a big, friendly smile. "I'm Hettie Lange, dear, part of the Los Angeles NCIS headquarters."

"Oh." Tim let his eyelids flutter closed once more. His head felt heavy and woozy and everything felt so much nicer when he closed his eyes. But he was still awake and still heard them talking.

As far as they were concerned, though, he'd fallen back asleep. "What are we going to do next?" Tony asked.

"McGee will be here for a while as he recovers," Gibbs said. "I'll talk it over with Vance, see how soon we can get him home."

"If he still wishes to come home," Ziva added.

"No point in him staying here, Ziva. The job he came here for doesn't really exist. Unless, of course, he hates working with us _that_ much."

"Stop being so overdramatic, Tony. He never said that he hated working with us, just that he needed a change of pace."

"Well, he obviously hates something if he up and left without even telling us."

"People leave," she said simply. "Sometimes they do so in a…cowardly fashion, but sometimes these things need to be done."

"Both of you, shut it," Gibbs said sternly, as though he were speaking to his children rather than his team members. "When McGee wakes up, he can decide what he wants to do. Either way, we're not leaving here until he's ready to leave the hospital."

That quieted them. From then until Tim finally did fall asleep, the group sat there in complete silence.


	14. Chapter 14

"I'm so happy you're not dead!"

"You've said that a few times already, Abbs," Tim said as she engulfed him in a light—well, light for her, at least—hug. "And thank you; I'm happy not to be dead."

Vance had arrived early that morning with Abby in tow, joining the rest of the team in his hospital room. The nurse on duty nearly had a fit when she came by to give him his lunch and found six people occupying the room along with him. It took a call from SecNav to persuade her to let them all stay.

Tim was now fully awake and aware. He tried not to look at himself, at the many casts, bandages, and bruises which decorated his body. He remembered the ordeal all to well and didn't need them as reminders. Besides, the pain he felt with every breath he took served as a perfect memento of his time spent at the hands of a rouge CIA agent and his brutish henchman.

No one had yet broached the topic that was on all of their minds. Instead, they talked and joked about things, acting as though everything was completely normal. Tim was relieved to have the time to think about it, to figure out what he would say when they finally did ask, but the overwhelming tension was killing him. He just wanted to get it over with.

"You should have seen Gibbs in action," Tony said, recounting the showdown between Nicolas and Gibbs. "Just one bullet, through the brain. The guy never even knew what hit him."

"Aw, I wish you hadn't killed him," Abby said with a pout. "I was thinking of all the ways I could get payback on him."

Ziva nodded in agreement. "I too hoped to inflict more than a little pain on the man before he was put out of his misery. Sometimes people get off too easy."

"Max Holder won't," Hettie promised. "As of right now he is being interrogated by Sam and Callen and they aren't the type to go easy on criminals."

"Any chances I can get in on that?" Abby asked hopefully.

Hettie smiled. "I admire your enthusiasm, Ms. Scuito, but I'm afraid that is out of the question."

"Nobody hurts my Timmy and gets away with it," she asserted, placing a protective hand on Tim's shoulder. He offered a weak smile in response.

"How are you feeling, Agent McGee?" Vance asked, silently studying the young man. He recognized that there was something different in Tim's demeanor, and it wasn't just his various wounds. He seemed on edge, antsy. Of course, that was normal after what he'd been through, but Vance had the feeling there was more to it.

Tim had taken another job. It was one that didn't exist, but he had taken it all the same. Vance knew that Tim's departure—especially as abrupt as it had been—hadn't gone over well with his co-workers. If the job had been real and he hadn't ended up in this situation, the team wouldn't be acting quite so pleasant around him. No one wanted to bring up a sore subject while Tim was lying in a hospital bed, though, so they avoided the subject at all costs.

"Physically, I actually don't feel much at the moment," Tim said. "Mentally, I'm just relieved and grateful."

Vance nodded. "You just focus on recovery for now."

"And how long will that take?" he asked. "I mean, how long am I going to be here?" He wanted to ask if he's be able to return to D.C. and to his old job, but everyone seemed so happy—well, as happy as they could be considering the circumstances—and he didn't want to bring the mood down.

Vance heard the unasked question and answered it the best he could. "I'm talking with your doctors to see how soon we can get you out of here and into one of the hospitals back east."

"Sure you want to leave so soon, Probie? I mean, the nurses here are babes!" Tony quipped.

Tim winced. He knew Tony had meant it in his usual joking way, but there seemed to be a biting undertone in his words. Still, he brushed the comment to the side as he relaxed back into his hospital bed. He was growing tired.

Gibbs noticed his agent's weariness. "Go grab some lunch," he told the others. "I'll stay here with McGee."

"Actually, I can stay here," Vance interceded. Before Gibbs could protest, he added, "I ate on the plane and I'm guessing you haven't had much of anything except coffee since you arrived in L.A. You go."

It wasn't worth arguing over and Gibbs knew he'd have his chance to talk with Tim. He motioned for the others to follow him, which they did, albeit reluctantly.

"Thank God," Tim muttered softly in a sigh. Catching sight of Vance's bemused look, he averted his eyes abashedly. "I'm sorry if I sound ungrateful, but I needed a little time to myself."

"Would you like me to leave as well?" He asked the question as he seated himself in a chair beside Tim's bed.

"No," Tim admitted, "I don't. It was just the others…they're avoiding what they really want to say to me because of what happened to me. The forced small talk as we skirted around the issue was starting to drive me crazy."

"And you don't think I've got my own curiosities about you taking the L.A. job? Well, at least what we _thought_ was an L.A. job."

Tim looked up, brow knitted. "Well, I figured you didn't. I mean, you offered me the job, so I assumed you wanted me to take it, right?"

"Agent McGee, I offered you the job because I thought you were the most qualified for it."

"So you _didn't_ want me to talk the job?"

"I had no opinion on whether or not you took the job. Either way you would still be working for NCIS and either way you'd be an asset to the agency." Vance leaned back in his seat. "Still, I have to admit I was surprised when you accepted the job offer."

"You didn't think I would?" Vance shrugged. "Then why even offer it to me?"

"Like I said, you were the most qualified for the position. No matter how sure I was that you wouldn't take the job, it would have been unfair of me to not even offer it to you. I simply assumed you would politely decline."

"Were you surprised when I asked for time to think about it?"

"A little," Vance admitted, "but I understood. It was an opportunity that, at the time, we both thought wouldn't come along again and you'd reached that moment in your career when things aren't as exciting as they were when you first started working for Gibbs. It's only natural to start wondering what it would be like to do something new."

"But you didn't actually expect me to take the job," Tim concluded.

Vance let out a long exhale. "I admit, I was taken aback. "I figured that you'd feel a sense of loyalty to your team. Not that you did anything wrong," he added hastily, catching sight of Tim's pitiful pout. "But yes, I didn't expect you to take the job."

"To be honest, I didn't either," Tim said. "I wanted to think about it, to give the idea of it a chance, but in the back of my mind I kept telling myself that I'd never leave the team."

"So what changed?"

Tim was silent as he mulled over the question. Then, he said slowly, "I guess I was tired of being so predictable, of letting my life be so predictable."

"Didn't think anyone would consider our line of work to be predictable," Vance commented with a small smile.

"The job itself, maybe not, but the office dynamics are. Everyone sees me as the ever-loyal computer geek on Team Gibbs. They know that I'll stay on that team as long as I can and that I'll probably never move up or down the totem pole." He fidgeted uncomfortably. "When I saw the opportunity for something different, I took it. To be honest, if you'd offered me the chance to be an agent afloat somewhere, I'd have stocked up on Dramamine and taken it."

"Things that bad?" Vance asked, eyebrow raised. He couldn't imagine the seasick-ailing young agent working aboard a ship, even if he had motion sickness medicine pumped directly into his veins 24/7.

"No," Tim conceded glumly, "it was just the same as it had always been, but…" He stopped, shaking his head. Why was this so hard to explain? "When Gibbs left, I couldn't understand how anyone as dedicated as he was could just walk away from this job."

Vance nodded. He hadn't been there when Gibbs had retired years earlier, but he'd heard about it, as well as the events which had lead up to it. Suffice it to say, he'd been surprised to hear that Gibbs of all people had left. He'd figured Gibbs would never give up that badge until they pried it from his cold, dead hand.

"But now," Tim continued, "I can understand it. I know that I didn't go through anything like what he did and it's not fair to really compare the two sets of circumstances, but I can see how he'd be able to walk away from it."

"He came back," Vance pointed out.

"Yeah," Tim said softly, "he did."

"So what about you?"

He looked up. "What about me?"

"Are you planning to come back?"

Tim snorted. "I don't think they want me back."

"Why do you say that? They've all been acting congenially around you."

"That's because I'm in the hospital and they'll feel like jerks if they tell me what they're really thinking." He ruefully looked at his marred and mangled body. "People are always nicer to you when you've got casts on."

"So why not talk about this with them?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to make them feel awkward."

"You don't think the subject will have to come up eventually?"

"Of course it will," Tim snapped in a much harsher tone than he'd intended, "but it doesn't have to be now."

"So what are you going to do? I don't think you can stay in this hospital and hope that the entire thing will resolve itself."

Tim nodded. "I know…and I don't know what I'm going to do."

"What do you _want_ to do?"

That question he didn't need to think about before answering. "I want to go back in time and tell the past me not to even consider taking the job. Seeing as that's impossible, I'll settle for just going back to D.C. and ignoring that any of this happened. Though, I guess that's just as improbable."

"As long as I'm the NCIS Director, you'll always have a job with us," Vance assured him.

"Maybe," Tim said, "but I won't always be welcome to the team again. Gibbs has at least that much control."

"McGee, do you really think they would have flown all the way out here to help you if they didn't want you on the team?"

"They get the case and they work it," he replied bluntly.

"I didn't give them the case; they insisted on taking it. Now I'm not going to lie to you, they weren't happy to find out that you'd left without a word, but they'll be happy to have you back. Ziva left and came back."

"Situations were different," Tim mumbled.

"But she still came back and was accepted, right?"

It wasn't completely true; Tim knew that some NCIS employees still didn't trust Ziva, but that was beside the point. The people who mattered had re-accepted her and in the back of his mind Tim knew they would re-accept him too. Still, he knew it would take time for things to stop being awkward.

"Now, if you decide you do want to stay in L.A.," Vance said, pulling Tim from his thoughts, "I'm sure I can find you a position somewhere, though I can't promise you'll be doing the same kind of work."

Tim shrugged, closing his eyes. He was starting to get tired and he wasn't in the mood to talk about this any more at the moment. "I'm not going anywhere right now. Mind if I sleep on it?"

"I don't mind at all. I'm sure you'll make the best decision."

He nodded. A few minutes later one of the nurses came in to give him medicine and within moments he was out like a light.


	15. Chapter 15

They sat in silence, with only the soft hum of the jet's engine to fill the quiet. The passengers had all had a few rough and sleep-deprived days and more than a couple of them were taking the ride home as an opportunity to catch up on some shut eye. D.C. was still more than an hour away and they were all looking forward to returning home.

Gibbs was one of the passengers still awake. He was seated by the window, looking out at the dim sky. They'd left very early in the morning and the sun was just beginning to peak out at them from the clouds. He hadn't really slept since his arrival in L.A., at least he hadn't slept an entire night; he'd caught an hour here and there, but nothing substantial. By all means, he should have been dead tired, but, well, he was Gibbs, and for whatever reason—be it main-lining caffeine or some super-human ability he'd obtained during his time spent in the Marine Corps—he could go for days on end without a wink of sleep.

While not quite so able, Vance could get by for quite a while without sleep. "Been quite an ordeal, hasn't it?" he commented as he slid into the seat across from Gibbs. "I told Jackie that when I became NCIS Director, the excitement that I had as an agent would stop. Guess I didn't give the position enough credit; thought it was all politics and paperwork."

Behind them, Tony, Ziva, and Abby occupied the seats, all three asleep. Tony was leaning against the window, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow. Ziva had managed to curl her entire body up on her seat, her knees hugged up to her chest and her head rolled to the side, against Tony's shoulder. Abby had lifted the armrest dividing the two remaining seats and was strewn across them, clutching Bert—who she had brought as a cheering up gift for Tim—tightly to her chest. They were dead to the world, the previous days of hard work finally catching up to them.

"I talked with him."

Gibbs' words took Vance by surprise. He'd be certain that he would be the one filling the silence with mindless chatter. Though, from the tone of Gibbs' voice, it was obvious this was not mindless, nor was it just chatter. "Talked with whom?"

"McGee," Gibbs said. "Before he took the job. At least I assume it was before that."

"And what did you two talk about?"

"Him, the job, the past. I suspected there was something going on with him."

"Not much can get past you, Gibbs." Vance looked out the window. He wasn't certain what state they were flying over at the moment. "Did you question him about it?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Just talked. I figured he'd eventually break down and come out and tell me what was going on."

"But he didn't." It wasn't a question on Vance's part.

"No, he didn't. Funny; six years ago he would have told me whatever was bothering him whether he thought I could help him or not. He could never have hid it from me."

"He's grown, Gibbs. McGee isn't a young, new agent anymore. He'll have his secrets now."

"You make it sound like I'm his parent."

"In a way you are. You're a parental figure to all of them. I know how difficult it can be when you realize your kid has changed so much, that the dynamic you'd once built up with them is so different."

"Even now, I'm surprised that he took off without a word."

"He had his reasons, I'm sure."

"I know," Gibbs said in agreement. "But now I'm questioning myself, wondering if I missed something, didn't do something I could have done."

Vance held back a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Gibbs like this. He wasn't exactly the type who shared his feelings. "Don't stress about it. I'm sure McGee would have taken the job no matter what you did or said. It was just something that was destined to happen."

"Probably," Gibbs replied, though he didn't sound all that certain. "Hopefully he's gotten that out of his system."

"Only time will tell."

"How's he doing?"

"Still under sedation, last I heard. His plane should touch down a little after ours."

Due to his injuries, Tim was unable to join them on the SecNav's jet. Instead, he'd been provided with transport that would accommodate his gurney. While it wasn't ideal, Vance had pulled countless strings just to get the doctors to agree to release Tim; he wasn't about to push the envelope. Besides, save for him and Gibbs, everyone was asleep (or sedated), so it didn't matter who flew on which plane.

Tim hadn't given Vance a specific answer about whether he had any intention of staying in D.C. and with Gibb's team, but he hadn't argued when they told him he was going home. It could have just been the medication, though, that had given him that lethargic demeanor.

"Everyone has been supportive," Vance observed, giving the sleeping passengers a glance.

"It's bound to wear off." Gibbs wasn't trying to be cynical or difficult, but he preferred to look at things realistically; it made it easier to anticipate potential problems. "I don't mean that they'll turn on him, but they'll want answers, just like I do."

"If you're all patient enough, you and they might just get them."

On the other plane, Tim was beginning to stir. He was in that place which lies between sleep and awake, his mind wavering back and forth between the two. Surprisingly, he found it was the perfect state of mind for thinking. It wasn't too quiet and focused, but he also didn't have many other thoughts running rampant in his mind.

He'd made a choice and it had led him down a bad path and slightly alienated him from his friends and co-workers. But he didn't regret making the choice he made, not completely. For as much grief as it had caused him it had also helped him realize what he really wanted.

One of the nurse's who was keeping him company saw that he was coming to. "You can lay there and relax, Agent McGee," she told him in a soothing tone. "There's still a bit of time before you get home."

Home. Tim didn't want to become overly sentimental, especially since he'd only been away for a week. Still, the word had a comforting feel to it, one that put him at complete ease.

"Home," he slurred as he fell back into a deep sleep, "sounds nice."

* * *

**AN: **And that's the end for this story! Yes, I know it's a bit ambiguous and I may write a follow-up later when I have more time, but I do hope you all liked the story and its ending :) Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers! You guys rock!


End file.
